Ever since I first started dating, I always wondered why I couldn’t keep a man around if my life depended on it. I stayed away from playing ‘the game’ and did my best to not be territorial, but it always seemed that these guys would get bored after a few months and leave. I was the perpetual rebound girl that all very unavailable men wanted to taste. A whirlwind of lust and excitement and strange. A fun break from their stale lives or stagnate relationships. So I thought it was my actions or behaviors that resulted with their boredom and eventual separation.

I thought maybe I had been portraying a party girl image. That my attitude and spirit weren’t suitable for a genuine, monogamous relationship. So I tried to make it more obvious that I read books and listened to classical music and enjoyed fine wine, but nothing worked. I tried to do the whole ‘lady on the street’ thing. I’ll admit that it attracted a better stock of men, but again, it did not keep them around.

And then I realized that a majority, if not all, of the men I had dated were white. Cute little hipsters or law grads or metal enthusiasts or businessmen, all of them white. And most of them had never been with an Indian girl. Most of them had never been with a girl who did not belong to their own race.

Exotic curiosity I call it. They just want to be in on the secret. What do Indian girls smell/taste/feel like? How do they grind? What’s their rhythm? Will they smell of jasmine or something a little spicier? What does the skin and hair feel like against their bodies? Are they pre-programmed with kama sutra knowledge? Most importantly, how do they stack up next to white women?

I was their object of fantasy. It’s a disturbing feeling when you first discover that you have no control over why people are attracted to you. I used to pride myself of being able to go into any room or situation, sit down next to the man I found attractive, and charm the pants off of them. Discuss topical issues, make them laugh, and that’s all I needed to do. A 100% closing ratio. A very humble 22 year old I was. But now knowing that this exotic curiosity phenomenon exists, how many of these men were actually with me because I made them laugh? How many of them were with me because they wanted to cross ‘Indian girl’ off of their list?

I have very rarely been approached by guys who have an Indian fetish. It made my skin crawl when they spoke of how much they love Indian girls, as I imagine a pedophile describing their arousal for children. But not all men are this forward about this subject, even though it is an obvious factor of attraction. As much as I want to think that interracial relationships are the norm, it still does not go unnoticed when people of different ethnicities walk hand in hand down the street. Just as people of the same gender showing PDA will demand a second glance. In the back of our minds, my man and I are always thinking about how different we are whether we admit it or not.

I will not deny that being in a supposedly taboo relationship makes it more exciting. I am not an innocent victim as much as I try to convince myself that I am. But for others to fetishize something I have no control over is a subtle version of objectification. Maybe even blatant. Everything I am leaves no evidence. My sense of humor came from my tragedies, my intellect came from my constant hunger to learn, and my personality is always under construction. I’ve always assumed that these are some of the important factors that bring two people together. You cannot see these things with a glance of my face. It’s not an obvious red dot in the middle of my forehead.

But this exotic curiosity really throws a wrench in the system. Am I supposed to be proud of the list of men I’ve lassoed because of my terra cotta skin? Where is the satisfaction of bringing someone home if it wasn’t your charm or humor or intellect that made him desire you?

It seems like a silver spoon effect. I don’t have to work very hard for the end result. Everybody hates it when the rich brat complains that she gets exactly what she wants, but this was not the initial issue at hand. Sure I can get someone interested with a waft of masala, but then what? How do I keep them around? And do I really, in the end, want to stay with someone who unknowingly (or maybe even admittedly) objectifies and fetishizes me?

It’s a difficult spot to be in. On the one hand, I could sit around and cry about it. What woman in this day and age wants to be objectified? Wants to be a means to an end? How shitty does it feel to know that every person you’ve been with and will eventually be with wants nothing from you but to satisfy some selfish curiosity? That they have no intentions of treating you as a human being with emotional consequences, but as a stepping stone from one relationship to another. I could cry about forever being the rebound girl.

Or I could utilize it. Satisfy my own curiosity of whatever I fancy that week. Have my list of people that I can categorize and label and group together too. Yes, absolutely it’s a defense mechanism. But you put up these defenses for survival. Or else you get used up. You shrivel up and die. You forget about life and how to enjoy it.

I understand this is a newer feminist issue. Is it subversive to capitalize on men’s willingness to objectify women? As in, is it OK to utilize my T&A to get ahead in the boy’s club if I’m KNOWINGLY doing it? Is it female empowerment to ‘use what you got’?

I. Don’t. Know.

What I can say is this kind of thought doesn’t do anything more than stereotype men and their mentality. It simplifies them to some kind of grunting cavemen-type sub-humans. And isn’t that what women are fighting against? Not to be treated as less than human? It’s not a constructive way to progress; to fight fire with fire.  At least not in this field.

But I hope it is obvious that all of this is a defense mechanism. It’s a counter-reaction to a reaction to the human condition. Let’s not kid ourselves, we are ALL objects of sexual desire. If we weren’t, we wouldn’t breed. But the object comes with subject. It’s a beautiful and excellent mixture of bodies and charm and torsos and sincerity and fingertips and soul. It’s difficult to separate the soul from the body, and I don’t care how many philosophers have tried to do it. And it’s easy to be offended when someone disregards your soul and conscious and mental capabilities, and only worships the objects of your person that you have no control over.

Your body.

Why wouldn’t women, as a counter reaction to the reaction men have towards their bodies, take advantage of this situation? It’s a mode for survival. It’s getting backed into a corner and trying to reason with your attacker, only to find that kicking and screaming has a more immediate effect. But that’s what this is. It’s kicking and screaming. It’s noise; a distraction from the core issue of why we aren’t cherishing each other properly.

I guess this entire rant is about finding some kind of medium. Yes, this is a body/soul dichotomy issue, with that whole feminism twist. It’s unfair to disregard our basic instincts to find a worthy person to reproduce with because in this way, we’ve always objectified each other. It’s also unfair to say that our souls are the only meaningful factor to our existence because our survival mode can make us do some nasty things to each other.

This whole survival mode/defense mechanism thing stems from humanity being ugly to us, but only justifies our ugliness towards it. It makes us forget our connection to humanity through greed and vengeance.

So I guess I should let go of this ‘exotic curiosity’ thing and embrace it?

- Written October 2010

Who said online dating was a bad idea? All I knew was, I didn’t end up dead in a ditch and my skin wasn’t cured for a lampshade. In fact, Joe was the best boyfriend I had up until that point. Or my first, either way. Prior to him, I was just a warm hole to stick it in. Guys loved to fuck me, but didn’t think I was worth the trouble of a real relationship.

So breaking up with Joe was a tough decision. He was 12 years my senior and the novelty was wearing off big time. At first it was a refreshing change of pace to the selfish, insecure, and indecisive guys I had been seeing that were my age. Joe was so perfect. On paper. Third year law school, laughed at my jokes, loved ethnic food, chivalrous, sexually generous. What’s not to like? What’s not to like is when someone (me) just hits the drinking age and wanted to drink and fuck all the time; a man like Joe didn’t exactly fit in that kind of lifestyle. Things were getting stale, so I broke up with him on a Wednesday.

By Friday I needed to go out and get laid. I needed to know I still had it; that I could charm the pants off of anyone I chose. And so we headed over to a very, very Irish bar. The only brownie at the joint, and I actually felt more at home than I was comfortable with. Half the night’s complete and I saw an attractive black man walk by. Finally! I mentally preped myself to approach him, when his even more attractive Irish Catholic friend followed. I changed targets and braced myself for the Catholic guilt I knew I was going to face in the morning. I tried to play the game a little and show off a bit to see if he’d come over to me. He kept looking over, he kept checking me out, but he never approached me. Some time passed and I rolled my eyes because I already had a feeling I had to do all the work. I approached him and told him he looked bored. Caught off guard, he said he was. His name is Dan. Small talk ensued and I wasn’t terribly impressed, but he’d do. Physically, he’s out of my league. Intellectually, I’m out of his.

It’s last call and all of the sudden the Catholic guilt from Joe caught up. I decided maybe I wasn’t thoroughly ready for this, so I left the ball in Dan’s court and told him to call me the next day. If I knew anything about guys, I knew he wouldn’t call until he wanted to (if he wanted to at all). This gave me a few days to wash Joe’s guilt off me. I’ll dip myself in bleach if I have to.

Surprise, surprise, Dan called me the next day ready to take me out. I was finally impressed. I dolled myself up and shaved everything I had to. He wanted to meet in Wrigleyville, ofcourse. I knew he was a meat-head from the beginning and I knew kind-of-sort-of what I was getting into. We bar hopped and bar hopped and bar hopped, yet he’d only bought me one drink so far. And every bar we went to, he spent more time talking to the bouncer than he did me. I ruled out him being gay because of how cheap he was. He was networking with the bouncers on our fucking date. He was networking so the bouncers wouldn’t charge him cover next time he came in. I guess I can’t blame him for being a multi-tasker.

So let’s get to the meat of the story. This is where the story really begins. He asked me back to his apartment to ‘check out his roof deck.’ Whatever, dude. I don’t understand why he has to sugar coat his intentions when he didn’t show a slight hint of interest beyond sex. When he didn’t even show enough decency to fake a conversation throughout our ‘date.’ He showed me his roof deck, and I was bored. When we entered is apartment, I was surprised to find the place absolutely immaculate. Everything, to the magnets on his fridge, placed so intentionally. He just moved from Michigan, he started saying, so his place is very bare bones. I don’t care.

We started making out, and I was bored. We made out for a good long time before I realized the situation hadn’t progressed at all. No clothes were taken off, no under-the-shirt groping, nothing. I rolled my eyes again knowing I had to do all the work. I’m annoyed that this was already foreshadowed from the night before.

I pushed him down on the rust colored velour couch and decided to progress things myself. A straddled him as the light from the TV reflected off of his alabaster skin; his expression pathetically aroused. His mouth parted slightly, his eyebrows raised and contracted as I went a bit further down to undo his jeans. He exhaled as his jeans moved past his ankles. Sliding the waistband of his boxers down, licking the red ridges his boxers left on the skin of his hip, I realized this was the biggest waste of time.

His penis, in all its glory, was nothing larger than the length of a fist and a head. To make sure I wasn’t hallucinating – maybe I was drunker than I thought? – I measured one more time. I wrapped my fist around his shaft, and nothing is left but his head, barely peaking out above my index finger. Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe I’ll use a different measuring tool. I wrapped my lips around the base of his dick and I couldn’t even feel the head near my throat. It only reached the roof of my mouth. Like a popsicle, I pressed my tongue on the bottom of his penis and slowly moved my head up to make eye contact. His dick slid out of my mouth and I looked up to see him watching TV. Reaching for the remote.

Oh. Hell. No! All that work for this? I decided I’m done trying to make any kind of lasting impression on this guy. He spent the entirety of our date networking, and now he thinks he can get away with acting like a meathead while his dick’s getting sucked. I got up and looked at the clock. Half an hour had passed since we started making out and my clothes are still on. Annoyed, I said, ‘you got a condom or what?’

I followed him into his bedroom where everything was precisely placed like a hotel room that hadn’t been renovated since the early 90’s. On his nightstand given to him by his dead grandmother were 4 condoms, fanned out in the shape of a rainbow. Breaking the arch, he grabbed a condom and fumbled to put it on himself. Do I have to do everything here? I’m just gonna get mine and get the fuck out of here. I grabbed it out of his hand, ripped it open, put it on, pushed him down on the bed, and sat right down. If he didn’t want to do work then I’d just have to do this however I wanted. I pushed down on his chest with both hands for leverage, raised and lowered my hips, my hair chandeliered down on his face. I closed my eyes and thought about girls kissing. I closed my eyes and thought about girls kissing on some guy’s dick. I closed my eyes and thought of an orgy with hands and torsos and pink and wet. I closed my eyes and thought about anything and everything so I could climax as quickly as possible and leave.

I was almost there and I realized I had to pee. I’m not used to climaxing vaginally and got too scared that I’d piss all over this guy – even though he probably deserved it. I hopped off and told him to, ‘hold this,’ and handed him his dick. I peed and wiped everything dry, realizing that I had to start all over again to get anywhere near aroused.

I walked back to the bedroom and am surprised to see him standing next to the bed, left hand holding his dick, right hand pointing to the bed as if to tell me, ‘get on your fours.’ I’m ecstatic. Finally! Some fun! I get on the bed like a horny little puppy and pushed my ass towards him, making a rhombus shape. I was so excited that he finally found some initiative, that I didn’t realize he didn’t ‘prep’ me for insertion. As dry as I was down there, he still tried to put his little prick into my vagina. He kept pressing and barely got his head through. He didn’t try to spit on his dick or on me, and he still pressed through mid-shaft. He didn’t try to separate my lips with his fingers, and he finally pressed his entire 4 inches in. Was this his first time? Once he got in there, he worked it like a jackhammer. I never thought I’d use such a cliché expression to describe the act of sex, but he had absolutely no technique. He just pointed in a direction and went to town.

I’m not a woman who enjoys spreading private information to anyone who will listen. The intimacy of sexual pleasure is one of the most excellent human experiences that cannot be equated with anything else. Wars are fought for it, people devote their lives to it, whole groups of people spend centuries denying themselves from it. Beyond hunger and sleep, some could say sex drives us to act. So to release this kind of information, on this specific person, is not without reason. As I’ve mentioned before, the size of his dick has been a problem all night.

So to justifiably release this information, those seemingly harmless 4 inches almost ended me. He was going to town, jackhammer and all, and he kept slipping out. This went on for awhile.  A lot of jackhammering and a lot of slipping out of me. At one point, he grew tired of manually reinserting, so once he slipped out, he tried to reenter through sheer momentum.    BAD.    I. DE. A.     When he pulled out, instead of reinserting into the now well-lubricated hole, his dick ‘accidentally’ moved up a few measures. Up a few measures into my very tight and unassuming brown eye.

Time, motion, sound, they all stopped. I heard a pop, and everything went into slow motion. The motherfucker popped my ass cherry. My head automatically pulled up as I let out a scream, as my elbows met behind my back, hands up in surrender. My arms flailed around like dolphin fins and I couldn’t think of what to do next. Time, motion, sound, they all came rushing back and I jumped up. I jumped up and grabbed my ass like I was going to vomit shit out of it. I looked around frantically and only saw white. White carpet, white duvet, white walls. And I thought I was going to shit all over them. Still holding my ass shut, I ran to the bathroom knowing that I was, but hoping that I wasn’t, bleeding out of my ass.

I ran into the bathroom, slammed the door shut, and took a seat. Sure enough, I swiped a bright red stain on the toilet paper. Is this coming from my own body?? I felt faint. In fact, I started fainting. I don’t remember drinking this much – to the point where I would start passing out… I need some water. I looked over to the sink on my right and started getting up. A one foot distance never seemed so far away. I got up from the toilet, and woke up a second later on the floor.  Why am I on the floor? Where’s that sink? I grabbed the sink with my right hand. Braced myself with my other hand. I managed to pull my head above the sink, only to pass out again and slammed my chin on the porcelain. Bit my tongue. Pulled myself up finally and tried to look at myself in the mirror to see if I’d possibly been drugged. Before I can even look into my eyes, I slipped out of consciousness one more time and nailed the mirror with my forehead. By this time, ol’ small dick is knocking on the door asking if I’m ok in there. I grunted and passed out one more time right after I managed to turn the sink on.

The second I heard the water run, I snapped out of it. All of the sudden, I was sober and wide eyed and wondering why the hell I had slipped in and out of consciousness. I scooped as much water into my mouth as I could and tasted iron. My tongue was bleeding and my lip busted open, on top of the bruises on my chin, forehead, and god knows where else. I was loosing way too much blood for not having my period this week. I splashed some water on my face and braced myself before leaving the bathroom.

I walked out and he asked what happened. As if he didn’t know. You popped me in the ass, dude. He showed concern right after he tried to hide his laughter. Of course this was funny. How could it not be? I’m exhausted and I don’t want to be touched, but it was too late to go home. I crawled into his bed and told him I was going to sleep, terrified that I was going to wake up in a pool of my own blood. I checked the clock. 5 am.

8 am and I was tossing and turning, making sure the sheets were dry and not soaked with ass blood. He woke up and tried to start things where we left them last night. Touching me, I turned away from his kisses. How the fuck does he think this is ok? I told him I was not comfortable. He said not to worry, to trust him. I can’t fucking do this. As he was dry humping me and as I was thinking of any and every excuse not to finish the job, I felt something warm and wet. No way. He just came. He abruptly stopped, hesitated, then said he needed to use the wash room. I quickly got out of bed and started putting my clothes on hoping I could escape before he got out. No such luck.

He walked back into the room and started making the bed. He gave the covers a once over with his hand, checking to see if any man juice spilled on to his duvet. Did he think that I didn’t see or feel that?! Fucking idiot. I was just glad to NOT see red stains on his sheets.

I rushed to get my clothes on and get the fuck out of there. His demeanor was distant since he came, but I couldn’t give two shits at that point. We awkwardly said goodbye without saying that we had a good time or we’d call. Who needs to lie at this point?

I couldn’t get out of there any faster. I thought I was home free when I finally see some sunlight and a sidewalk, only to quickly realize I didn’t remember exactly where the train station was. Chicago living made me arrogant enough to think I could get by knowing the general direction of where I was headed, but I was soon humbled. The thing about the Sheridan train stop on the Red Line was that it took an S shape on the tracks. So I followed the tracks, but couldn’t seem to find the actual station. This took me over a half hour of walking too far north, back tracking, walking too far south, only to come back around again. All the while I walked around in a tube top with nipples you could use as a kebab stick, and a skirt too short for a Sunday morning before church. My hair looked like a bird’s nest, my mascara was  smeared, and I was walking around with Gumbie’s posture. EVERYONE was looking at me like, ‘this girl either had a really good or a really terrible time last night.’ All with a little smirk on their face.

Once a few hesitant locals finally pointed me to the direction of the station, I sat on the train with a sense of relief. But it hurts to sit. In fact, it hurt to do nearly everything. Coughing, laughing, raising my eyebrow, and I could feel all of this in my ass. I never realized how much of my ass muscles I used with my face. Five stops on the El took what seemed five years. All the while, every few minutes I’d think of the night’s events and start laughing to myself. Unable to bend my knees because the movement hurt my ass too much, the walk back to the apartment was the River Styx. Oh my God, and the three flights of stairs!! The stairs were so painful that I ended up blocking it out of my memory as a survival tactic. Once I pushed through the heavy wooden door, I had to make the decision of either walking 100 feet to the couch or the 120 feet to my comfortable bed. The couch obviously won. As I lay myself down on my stomach, my face peeking out from the side of the sofa, I started chuckling to myself thinking only this kind of shit ever happens to me.

here’s my not-that-random stuff about me that’s supposed to make me kind of endearing or cute. or maybe not, i don’t really understand the purpose to these lists. probably just another chance to talk about myself. in that case, i’m down. 

1. my favorite magazine is esquire. it’s a men’s magazine, but i’m very comfortable with my masculinity. 

2. i collect books like shoes. i buy them and they collect dust. in fact, i’ve only read 33% of my library (and yes, i took the time to count). even more, i have a list of books NOT to buy because i’ve already collected 2 copies of 5 books. what can i say - dr. phil just keeps coming out with amazing shit. 

3. my plan was to go to grad school in new orleans. i made this decision 2 days before katrina. this was the first time i realized the importance of a ‘plan b.’ 

4. i’ve written at least one poem for every guy i’ve been with. and several for every guy i haven’t. 

5. my taste buds for a good cocktail changes with the seasons. started with gin and tonics, long islands, red wine, amaretto sour, whiskey sour. this season is reserved for manhattans. hold the bitters. splash of sour. 

6. i am a medical ethics slut. i love talking about it, reading about it, writing about it, arguing about it over a glass of wine. i will trap a stranger at a bar into a conversation about the difference between medical treatment vs enhancement. the way boys love trapping girls into a conversation about sports. 

7. a list within a list: stephen colbert, anthony bourdain, jason bateman, thom yorke. i’m not sure how appropriate it is to give this list a title. 

8. i have this fear that my car will explode after a fill up. but then again, i’m also afraid of boogers and ghosts. 

9. the only pets i’ve ever had were fish. when gatsby died, i stayed in bed for 2 days and only got up to pee. when curtis died, i handled it a lot better. there were 2 after curtis that i didn’t even get to name because they died so fast. keenon ivory waynes, lou daimond phillips, and neil patrick harris didn’t live too long either. i might need to upgrade to a cat. 

10. as a woman, i only have 2 emotions: hungry and horny. 

11. men look good with facial hair. 

12. i love chicago. i’m not that much of a world traveler, but i’ve been around. rome, mumbai, london, dollywood. but everytime i go east on 88 and see that skyline - it feels like the first time, every time. 

13. my favorite track of all time for right now is shannon’s “let the music play.” 

14. negra modello, stellar artois, blue moon, goose island, hacker pshorr, new castle. but also, pbr. 

15. there is a quiz at the end of the book the definitive guide to stuff white people like. i scored 98% white. i can’t help it if i like bjork and arrested development. and asian girls. 

16. i hate it when men pay for me. for anything. going dutch is great. that way, there’s no obligations for anybody. if he pays though, there’s too much pressure to suck dick at the end of the night. and if you don’t, you’re a high maintenance gold digging cunt. wait a minute…on second thought… 

17. i’ve stopped trying to be cute and clever. i’ve stopped trying to pretend to have good taste. i’ve stopped pretending like i have any kind of style. it’s made me into a fairly boring person, but letting go feels good. 

18. i can’t wait to establish myself! can’t wait to pay for my own furniture and own a condo and buy my first car and pay for cable. i can however, wait to settle and have babies. 

19. the summer of 1996 was dedicated to nada surf, buttholes surfers, and superdrag on heavy rotation. fuck going outside. 

20.evolution makes me cry. civil rights makes me cry. boys do too. but not as much as the first two. 

21. i love smoking cigarettes in bed, before i get out of the covers. when i’m drinking my coffee. and taking a shit. after i make a sale. and all the times in between. 

22. mangoes, guava, pomegranate, pinneapple, star fruit. 

23. i enjoy doing things on my own. going to the movies, out to eat, having a drink after work. some people think it’s sad. i think it makes them more uncomfortable then it does me. 

24. bears and horses really creeps me out. 

25. whenever people ask me how i met someone, my knee-jerk reaction is always “the internet.”