The night before skydiving, I was wracked by nightmares. Not the sorts of nightmares that I suppose one would expect like death, dismemberment and a parachute not opening… I tossed and turned about things such as losing my shoes somewhere over the city, or yarfing on my hot tandem jump partner, or losing being too afraid to jump.

Obviously, my priorities are in some sort of order…

As Admiral Fubar and I drove toward Mollala, while we talked and while we both signed a stack of waivers as tall as a small child… these 10 thoughts were running through my mind in a continuous loop; 1) this is so awesome! I can’t believe I’m finally going to do this 2) This is so stupid! Why the fuck am I going to do this? 3) This is so cool! I hope I don’t yammy on anyone 4) Oh my god. What if I spew? 5) This is so freaking awesome! I can’t believe I’m finally going to do this! 6) I should remember to stop at the store on the way home and pick up tampons since I forgot last night. 7) Oh my god. What if I bleed through my jumpsuit? 8- This is so stupid! Why the fuck am I doing this? 9) My boss is gonna be so pissed at me if I die. 10) This is so amazing! Why has it taken me so long to do this?

Even between conversations about whatever Admiral Fubar and I was talking about… those thoughts ran in circles at the speed of light and then I would look over and Admiral Fubar would grin with this crazy mischievous look and I couldn’t help but smile back because no matter what happened – I was about to jump out of a plane with my baby brother and that is all sorts of awesome.

While we were sitting in the lobby, a young super hot instructor walked past us to the back room to get ready and Admiral Fubar obligingly announced to the whole room, “Yeah, Athena, you don’t want to hurling on THAT guy!”

Leave it to siblings to set my face on fire at the sudden odd look from the hot guy. I tried to smile at him but ducked my head and prayed that he wouldn’t be my instructor. Thankfully he wasn’t, the older guy that went with me was amazing and calm and gentle and talked the whole time so I knew what to expect from the time we started suiting up till the time we jumped.

As we walked in our jumpsuits toward the runway, the photographer followed with the video camera and kept encouraging me to give the thumbs up and smile – but I really felt like my legs belonged to someone else. My feet were moving – but I didn’t feel entirely present. “This is a terrible idea! This is awesome! This is stupid! This is great!” Etc.

Every time I looked over at Fubar as the plane was taking off, I seriously thought the kid was going to burst into hysterical laughter and start jumping up and down clapping. He looked like Bliss and as the plane lifted off and began circling to 14,000 feet I was suddenly profoundly grateful that he offered to take me skydiving for and early birthday since he would be in Baghdad in August. I have the coolest little brother ever!

The sky was a brilliant blue with a smattering of clouds that we flew through and minor turbulence. My instructor was coaching my in my ear as he sat behind me attaching my harness to his.

“When we reach altitude you and I are going to go to the edge of the plane and I want you to sit on the edge and dangle your legs outside like you are sitting at the edge of the pool!” he said in my ear.
I nodded.

“Then after Dave jumps with the camera, I’m going to rock us three times and then we will roll out of the plane on three. Okay?”

I nodded again and glanced at Fubar. “Have fun big sister! I love you! I’ll see you on the ground!”

At altitude, the other jumpers disappeared and I didn’t even see them go and before I was even paying attention my instructor was oonching me toward the door and I was thinking, “sit at the pool sit at the pool sit at the pool sit at the pool…”

We ambled to the edge of the airplane where safety ended and nothingness began and I sat at on the edge like I was sitting at a pool – but when my instructor sat down he pushed me off the lip and I was suddenly dangling by my harness off his chest. I had only a moment to think, “What a jerk! He’s totally hung me out there like some…….AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA
AAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH
HHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!”

And I screamed like a six year old girl for what must have been 3,000 feet until I completely ran out of breath.

As Admiral Fubar tells it from his perspective, “I was watching you and the instructor move to the door. You looked fine and I glanced back at my dude but heard –EAHAH! And the panic in your voice made me stand up and I dragged my guy to the exit but you were already like 500 feet behind the plane!”

I imagine Admiral Fubar didn’t give his instructor much notice as he dove after me and while I was screeching like a ninny – Fubar was yodeling like a lunatic!

The panic response to scream is triggered mostly by the logical knowledge that you are falling – but truthfully once I ran out of breath and inhaled – my lungs froze from the temperature of the altitude and I finally closed my mouth to inhale through my nose and realized…..

WAIT A MINUTE… I’M NOT FALLING… I’M SWIMMING.

Because of the altitude there is no frame of reference for falling. Sure, there’s a sudden uncomfortable and intense pressure in my ears. Sure, the cold is biting into my fingers and my lungs. Sure, the weight of terminal velocity and wind power is pushing against my chest like it’s trying to crush my sternum – but

OHMYGODTHEVIEWISAMAZING! OH,YGODI’MFLYING AND THEWORLDIS SO TINY AND MAGICAL AND LIKE PATCHWORKY GOODNESS AND

I knew the photographer kept trying to get a picture of my face but he kept getting in the way of my view of the world all laid out like a massive quilt of endless possibilities. I wasn’t falling – I was flying quickly in a fixed downward direction. I imagined for a moment that we didn’t need a parachute as my sinus cavity seemed to inflate enough land us both safely on the ground.

AND THEN I WAS LAUGHING…

I laughed until he pulled our chute and grinned with a permanently attached smile because my face had frozen in a state of happiness. While falling/flying earthward I forgot about bills, work, dating, dishes. I forgot that Admiral Fubar would be leaving in a couple of days. I forgot that I am lonely. I forgot that I haven’t been writing.

I knew only that when the chute pulled and my harness strained against gravity that I was airborne and the horizon was further than I had pictured, that the earth is far greener the sky more blue and tomorrow was full of limitless potential – because – I just jumped out of a fucking plane – now I can do anything.

After a moment or two of drifting with the chute he turned us around so I could watch Admiral Fubar, and there was a moment of sympathy for him for what looked like a jerk as his harness yanked him skyward when the chute opened. Poor guy. I knew he would be feeling that one.

“If you put your hands through the loops you can control the chute. Pull right and we’ll turn right. Pull left and we’ll turn left.” He said from somewhere above me.

“What happens if you pull them both at the same time?” I wondered.

“Here. Put your hands in and I’ll show you.”

So I put my hands in the straps to drive the parachute and together we pulled down. The chute stalled and caught air – suspending our fall but even though my body stopped falling – my stomach did not.

“OH DEAR GOD! Please don’t ever do that again!” I wailed as my stomach fell out somewhere over a sheep farm in Mololla. “I’m going to throw up!”

“Just look out over the horizon, don’t look down. I have a baggy in my pack if you need it.”

“You carry a barf bag around?”

“If the pressure of your harness is too much just stand on my feet and that will take the pressure off your chest.”

So I did. I stood on my instructor’s feet like I was dancing with my dad at the Father/Daughter Ball, and the earth drifted up toward me with determined focus.

Our landing was expert, I barely even noticed the transition – until I stood there and gravity made the world under my feet stop moving.

The photographer and Admiral Fubar came blaring toward me and the look of concern on Fubar’s face made sense when he later confessed that I was deathly pale and he thought my nose was bleeding until he realized it was the shadow.

The Photographer shoved the video at me and said, “How was it?!!”

“I think I’m going to spew.” I commented, and Admiral Fubar started laughing.

As we left the airstrip, my legs wobbled and my smile stayed fixed. My stomach settled once I was moving under my own control again and as soon as I wasn’t nauseas I was suddenly RAVENOUSLY HUNGRY!

We said our goodbyes to the crew and drove straight to a burger shop where we laughed and relived everything while I ate a double bacon cheeseburger, tots and a shake. All the while I sat across the table from my little brother and thought – this is bliss.

Skydiving. Hanging out with Fubar. Bliss.
So I guess that answers the question – Does skydiving cause bliss? YES.

45 minutes later as we were driving back to Portland I burst into uncontrollable- hysterical laughter. “We just jumped out of an airplane! That’s so stupid! Why did we do that??? That’s so awesome.” A bit of a delayed response – but alas, I rarely react timely anymore.

Admiral Fubar lets Ladies fall out of planes first.

Pretty sure I was still screaming like girl here.

We could parachute with my nostrils alone.

I call this the 200$ facelift.

If only everything were as easy as falling.

It happened so fast.

I feel I should preface the rest of the story with some information about myself that I’m not sure most of you know. If you know me in person, then you probably already get that I am pretty sexually uninhibited. I don’t believe in shame being associated with consenting adults. People’s choices and proclivities, especially in regards to sex are their own.

With that said, I often get the reputation of being a scaredy cat in terms of making up my mind whether I want to actually engage with someone… but once my mind is confirmed sex is inevitable; there is no topic, act or idea I am not generally willing to discuss, ponder or try. I may take my time thinking about it and ultimately decide it is not for me – but I firmly believe in communicating true desires and having an open mind in the bedroom. There is no such thing as delicious life-altering sex with a closed mind.
Again- consenting adults.

There are however, certain manners, rules and etiquette that should be observed in every situation. Your comfort levels. Your partner’s comfort levels. Safety and consideration. The courtesy of feedback in some format. Respect previously stated boundaries. Stop – immediately and without any negativity if is it requested (see partner’s comfort levels)

I will admit to being a sexually overt woman, with experience I don’t consider to be pithy – but despite that, I am VERY CHOOSY of my lovers.

So with this in mind, I invited FilmBuff home with me. I am choosy – and I chose him.

“Are you worried?” He asked.
“Really, the only thing I’m actually worried about is you feeling like I’m taking advantage of you.” I shrugged. He smiled and followed me out the door.

We left the Doug Fir and headed toward my house. I made sure to keep him in my mirror so he wouldn’t get lost (someone actually wants to sleep with me? I sure as hell was not about to speed and potentially lose them, right?) and all the while my mind raced with questions, insecurities – most obviously the worry that the kitchen trash had fouled up the whole house – and the other insecurity was that I currently had a patchy yaya thanks to the wax job. Go figure. The one time I actually am in this position someone I like enough to bring home who actually reciprocates -in like a year – I have tortured my crotch just in time for a stranger to see it. Go me.

We pulled up at my apartment and when I climbed out my legs were shaking but mores to the point, when he walked up to meet me… the twenty minutes from the Doug Fir to my house had completely altered his body language.

We walked in and sure enough, the trash stunk. I apologized profusely and bustled trying to tidy and light a candle to freshen the air. A quick tour of my apartment showed him that there are still boxes that haven’t been unpacked all over the living room and parts and pieces of a stupid IKEA bookshelf that I’ve spent a week trying to put together. Shredded instructions, loose screws and plywood planks completely left the living room off limits.

That left the kitchen table and the bed. And the kitchen table was a craigslist find so I didn’t trust it to take my weight – which really only left the bed –which I had to drag piles of laundry off and clean up the spilled box of tampons I’d dumped there while digging through the closet for my tripod. I grinned at him as I grabbed handfuls of regular unscented tampons and stuffed them away. “Clearly, I wasn’t expecting company…” I murmured. Go Me.

He sat on the corner of the bed and for all his confidence at the bar, his six foot five frame suddenly looked 5 years younger and coltishly awkward.

“You think you’ll regret this?” He asked. “I think you’ll probably regret this. We don’t have to do this if you don’t want to.”

“Whoa there, how about not telling me what I’ll regret… but more importantly, if it’s something you are trying to bring up then maybe it’s something you’ll regret. We don’t have to do anything unless you want to.”

“Oh! I want to!” He asked if I had birth control (bravo!).

“I’m not on birth control. I rarely ever have sex! But I have condoms. I have protection.”

“That’s what I meant by birth control.” He admitted.

A little flag went off in my mind, “Actually, condoms are protection – not just birth control.”

He suddenly seemed so young and I wondered if I were doing the right thing. I sat next to him on the bed and helped him lie back.

“I’ve never really done this before,” he admitted. Another flag fired, OH GOD! IS HE A VIRGIN?

“Uhm… when’s the last time you had sex?” I wondered.

“Wow. A long time ago. Almost a month.” Yup. That’s how you know a guy is 23. A long time for sex is a month.

“When was the last time for you?” he asked.

“You mean with myself – or with someone else…?”Dude didn’t even crack a smile.

“With someone else…” he corrected.
“Oh, well longer than a month for sure it’s coming up on a year. Then a year before than and well, it goes on.” I tilted my head, “What are your expectations of this? What are you afraid of?”

“I’m afraid I’ll come too fast and be a bad lover.” He admitted (God I wanted him so bad right that minute. Honesty is the sexiest thing ever!)

“Well, if that’s really bothering you let’s talk about it.” I offered.

“So I have to admit, I’m not really sure what to do. Could you? Could you take control?”
I was surprised and flattered and amused and way turned on all at once. His honesty about not being sure, his willingness to let me take over – all of it, was a major aphrodisiac.

“Have you ever let anyone be in control before?” I asked.

“No, I’m usually the one in control. But I’ve always wanted to try this.”

“Okay,” I said.

“What? What are you going to do to me?” His sudden fear made my stomach clench.

“I’m not going to do anything to hurt you. First I’m going to kiss you, let’s just see how we kiss. I’m perfectly content if we don’t have sex, I would be happy to just have my way with your body all night if that’s what’s best. But first, I want your mouth.”

And so that’s how the dynamic was established. I kissed him and he tried to kiss me back at first – but I believe sensory overload shut off his ability to respond and for the next hour he remains mostly stiff.

He was beautiful. I couldn’t stop staring at him. Even after I had taken all his clothes and settled myself in the crook of his arm I kept marveling at his beauty and my hands skimmed over his skin –reading like he was brail. Soon though, he began closing his eyes. And not just closing but squinching them shut. Soon he was gripping the edged of my bed nearly ripping the sheets. He stopped making noise. Stopped moving. His legs were nearly knees together and toes out straight, arms clutching the sheets for dear life and refusing to touch me –look at me –kiss me. It began to feel a lot like he just wished I’d go away -like some bad dream – he just wanted to wake up in his bed at home. At one point I wasn’t sure he was even still breathing.

I was straddled atop him when I said, “Are you afraid to touch me?”

He squinted his eyes open and had a look on his face like he bit into a lemon. “No, I just thought you were in charge so I shouldn’t touch you.”

“Well, if I’m in charge I say put your damn hands on me.” I sighed.
He let go of the twisted grips of sheet long enough to grab both my ass cheeks give them a rough squeeze and then he went back to clutching the bed as though death were inevitable and he wished it would all just end.

“Okay, would you uhm, like to touch my breasts?”

“Oh, yeah, of course,” he said and double fisted my ladies gave them a good jostle and went back to clinging to the bed.

I felt like I was at an impasse, after a conservative estimate of an hour of touching, kissing him, caressing him and trying to relax him – I was out of ideas. And frankly, I wasn’t having any fun. Furthermore, he had been so ridiculously hard for so long I was certain if I didn’t get him off somehow he would have a nauseating case of blue balls. Trouble was, he wouldn’t actually come because I suspect he was probably squinching his eyes shut and doing long division or imagining his grandmother in an attempt to prevent himself from letting go. I chewed on my lip and wondered if it were physically possible for a 23 year old guy to explode a testicle? Not likely but possible? Not on my watch, damnit! Not. On. My. Watch.

I wondered and wondered what to do, because as it was, without any feedback; i.e., talking squirming; noises; panting, bucking – NOTHING. I had no idea if I was even on the right track, furthermore, there is very little fun in being in control if there isn’t at least some loss of control from the sub, ya know?

So he wanted me to be in control – but clearly could not totally relinquish control to me… not a terrible thing, it’s much harder to do than you’d think so I did actually have sympathy. Just not enough sympathy.

Because to have control I decided to take it, and after putting on protection I gingerly slid my body onto his. It hurt. Obviously I was not warmed up (I’d been busy warming him up not that he needed it) so I was taking it slow. I figured on the 50% likelihood that he would come immediately to take the pressure of and I would warm myself up on him and just keep going until he was ready to continue. You know the ol’ pop the cap- let it breathe- toast well into the night routine. It seemed like my best option.

As soon as my weight settled on his legs he finally and yet all too suddenly lost control and his orgasm completely rocked my body. Go ME! Ta Da! Precisely what I’d hoped for so now he could stop worrying and relax and we could get down to the two way play and build him up again.

BUT…

“I came too fast.” He mumbled.

“No worries, “I said, foolishly quite please with myself. “We’ll have better luck on the next one.” In my mind this meant in like half an hour but I estimated that based on his strength and excitement it would be more like 10 minutes. And even if he was too exhausted to get right back up that left all sorts of first time mutually pleasing pastimes to occupy ourselves with into the wee hours of morning. I was in pain and burning but I fully expected that a rich night of continued lovemaking was in store.

BUT…

No sooner had he finished his spasm then I was fairly unceremoniously on my side as he lunged out of bed, grabbed his pants and ran into the bathroom. I heard the water and my mind was reeling with WTF?

He breezed back into the room to dig on the floor for his shirt. He wouldn’t make eye contact, wasn’t smiling. My body was on fire – my mass of confusion at his sudden shift was overwhelming and disorienting.

“Are you okay?” I asked as he slipped his shirt on. I wondered if I broke him or something. Bruised? Maimed?

“Yeah, I’ve gotta work in the morning.” He said as he hopped into a sock and made a break for the door.

I couldn’t actually believe it. I was so surprised and astonished that I half chased him to the door and said, “Well, have a good day at work tomorrow…”

And with that he was gone zipping up his clothing as he fled into the night. POOF! Hit and run at the intersection of NE and what fuck just happened???

Now, let me remind you all of what I consider to be a substantial sexual background. Then let me tell you I suddenly felt like a 16 year old girl who got laid and dumped on prom night. I hobbled back to bed and sat there wondering what in holy freaking god could have caused such a reaction? I haven’t seen anyone flee that fast since I saw a shoplifter get chased through the Lloyd Center by six security guards.

I’m not a post-coital cuddler with strangers. In fact I don’t even like sleeping next to people I don’t know. If he’d rolled over after cumming his brains out I would have tucked him in bed and laid awake till my alarm went off – because I don’t like sleeping next to strangers. I’ll snuggle if they need it or if by some chance a wild hair catches me all funny and I’m having an oxytocin overload. I don’t expect affection or devotion or a relationship – it might be nice, I might want the option. I might like the concept that someone would be in to me enough that they’d want to see me again, especially if I liked them enough to bring them home. But the fact remains that I had no expectations of a future yet because no such discussion was ever approached.

The expectation I did have was a mutually beneficial enjoyment and the common courtesies and etiquette of having sex with a stranger.

But never under any circumstances has it ever been okay to literally fuck and run without explanation or reciprocation of any sort. Well, I guess unless that fantasy has been previously worked out.

It’s about being thoughtful, despite how awkward, vulnerable, terrified or embarrassed you are. The thing about going home with someone – they almost always have the same worries that you do. Am I good enough? Hot enough? Does my breath smell bad? Will they ever talk to me again? Was I a good lover?

And with his vanishing act, my early days of sexual revolution came flooding back. Every insecurity I thought I ever beat landed squarely at my feet. Am I too fat? Ugly? Uncoordinated? Smelly? Stupid? Was it my hair? Were my breasts too small? Was it because my yaya was patchy from being waxed? Was I stupid to pick a younger guy? Was I fooling myself?

Was it the stinky kitchen trash?

Then as morning light began to come through the window and I realized I’d been up all night agonizing I realized – maybe – just MAYBE it wasn’t me.

Maybe I hurt him? Maybe I broke his penis? Maybe he was embarrassed he came so fast? (I can’t even wrap my brain around this fear. It’s just that weird.) Maybe he had a sudden and crippling case of nuclear diarrhea and he was afraid to use my bathroom (not likely but maybe?) Maybe he was a virgin? Maybe he was late for a wedding? Maybe he was ashamed of himself (I don’t get this one, but okay) Maybe he’s gay and he was testing his sexuality on me? Maybe he realized he left the gas stove on? Maybe he was afraid I would want to snuggle? Maybe he knew I meant to have him again and again that night and he fled for his life? Maybe he heard me say “next time” and couldn’t possibly imagine a “next time” with me? Maybe – probably – he was just not that into me….

Whatever. I could go in circles for hours. Maybe, maybe it was as simple as he felt completely overwhelmed because he had never lost control before. Utter Vulnerability. So vulnerable that there is no recovering in front of someone from the emotional whiplash and the only alternative is to get to safety – fast. I can totally resonate with that one being that my history is as an escape artist as well, right?

This in fact, is the excuse I favor the most. Only after asking for perspective from other people. Only after blogging and stressing. I called him to get a clarifying question that would put all this to rest but I think I already knew… I will never see him again. Is that okay?

It’s sad. I’d love to have a really great and reasonable explanation that I can quantify and tidy up the loose ends with. I’d love to watch him talk about cars some more and I’d love to have my mouth on him again. I know I am foolish to admit this, but I really did like him – obviously enough to bring him home – which says a lot.

So what is the moral of the story? I’m still sorting that one out. I’ve still never EVER felt cheap before, like I felt cheap on Thursday night.

I sent him a text the next day as I was rocked with flash back, “Wow. Thank you for the flashbacks. I hope you’re not too tired at work today.”
I didn’t want to press the idea that part of the reason I had agreed to bring him home was his answer to the question…

““If it would be fun to go home with me tonight… would it also be fun just to have a conversation tomorrow. Maybe another drink tomorrow?”

He smiled, a beautiful stretch of white through his beard, and my world rocked a little when he said, “That would also be fun, yes.”

“Then why don’t you come home with me tonight, and we can talk some more tomorrow…””

I suppose I should have made my intentions known at the time, but his admission that he’d be interested in seeing me the next day, gave me the sense of security that he wasn’t out for a hit and run, and that even if I did have sex with him – we could at least discuss the aftermath like adults, because let’s face it, people can get weird about sex, and I wanted a little security that there would be discussion.

After coming to the conclusion that I would never hear back from him – he’s probably in another country by now he was running so fast, I wrote him a follow-up email, which I have been trying to do after all my dates to express myself so they are not left out of a loop.

I figured it was possible he was struggling with equalizing some of his own chaos or insecurities but despite that, I sent a “food for thought” email about things he might want to know about the etiquette of the one-night stand or sex with strangers. A guide of what not to do.

The way I figure it is if I’m never going to see him again, I hope he doesn’t repeat the behavior on anyone else.

So there you have it. My story of finally choosing a lover after a tremendously long dry spell.

I’ve had sort of a bad run of luck with the men of late and I’m beginning to be deeply suspicious about it because… “If there is one asshole, it’s them. If there are two… it’s a freakish trend. But if there are three - - maybe I’m the asshole….” That’s definitely food for thought.

www.theblissquest.com

“…If you were to ask me to go home with you, I wouldn’t say no.” He said.
I stared at him in shock, and my mind felt suddenly like a dropped jar of marbles. Glass shattering and marbles skittering every which way on the hardwood floor. What’s my name? Do I even remember how to speak English? Where am I? What’s the square root of…. elephants?

It was a long day having answered a couple more of the cl ads after work and rushing off to the Doug Fir where I had a photo gig for Eric Kotila. I’d said to one of the CL guys that I was doing a gig there and he was welcome to stop by for a drink afterward.

To my utter astonishment, he did – and he was beautiful. He was tall, as his ad stated but I was still surprised to be looking up even in my heels. He had sandy colored hair and a beard that framed deliciously full lips. Pin-stripped trousers and a grey sweater over a casual red t-shirt.

He loitered while I finished up my gig and then as I was leaving, I stopped by to talk to Eric and let him know I was going upstairs to have a drink. Eric mentioned that he reads the blog and said, “You’re very witty and I read your stories about dating and I think, “It’s not that hard to be a good guy!” You just need a good guy, guys. It’s not that hard!” I think I must have hugged Eric three or four times. I doubt he’ll ever have any idea how much that small pep talk meant to me. Foolishly, I was too distracted by the idea of the man waiting for me upstairs to tell Eric that I was going to go meet with someone I hoped would change all the ideas about bad dates thus far.

So it was that I found myself sitting next to FilmBuff. For the next couple of hours I sipped a rum and coke and had great conversation with him. We talked about film, argued about cars, and subtly and not so subtly dissected each other’s back stories. A strange thing began to happen. I have been electrically attracted to all of two men in as many years. Don’t get me wrong, I have admired many, their beauty or grace or geekiness – but my visceral and hormonal response has been triggered by two men in the last drought of sexual inactivity. While talking to FilmBuff, I began to wonder what he kissed like. I began to feel heat radiating up my belly in a way that it hasn’t in a very long time. Over those couple of hours my proximity gap shifted and I inched closer and closer to him until I could feel the warmth of his body even though I wasn’t actually touching him and god help me, I was hot for him.

Then he asked about my next adventure and I mentioned I was 30 so it’s definitely time to learn to ride a motorcycle.

“You’re 30?” he asked.
To my surprise I’d forgotten to mention it in my response and I suddenly remember that he is only 23. When I had invited him to drinks, I assumed I would only be talking about film or whatever, I didn’t actually think I would have a sexual reaction – because I almost never do. Suddenly remembering that he was only 23 was like a cold shower on a blazing hot day.

We talked about it. For a good while. He asked if I was an ageist. Obviously, I didn’t want to admit I was and instead claimed, “The twenties are all about having your own personal adventures. It’s when you find yourself, discover and explore and sleep with all the wrong people and ultimately figure out who you are. I don’t want to poach on that – so I rarely am attracted to younger guys. I don’t want to be a poacher.”

Ultimately, he said something to the affect that it was his choice – and who can argue with that? After hours of talking I will confess, that I was less than thorough about reading the subtleties. I will confess that I imagined his limbs tangled with mine. I confess I wanted my mouth on him and I will further confess that I was more and more astonished by my physical desire.

The awareness that my body still works, still wants, still craves on a carnal level the actual lustful passion that my brain writes and my imagination worships left me suddenly insecure and completely disoriented. My mind raced with condemning thoughts and excuses and ways to try to run away because I didn’t know how to escape the electrical rapid fire in my limbs.

I didn’t wash my hair this morning. I’m tired. I didn’t take the kitchen trash out. I have to work in the morning. I might still be needed for photos. I’m wearing the wrong shoes…

Excuses. A litany of unreasonable, illogical escapes triggered in my brain in hopes that I would gather my wits and flee the system overload that was shutting my brain off.

Right at that very moment he said, “So where do you see this evening going?”

My heart exploded into frantic beating, “What? Why? What do you mean?” Is it hot in here?

“I think you know what I mean….” He said and met my eyes with magnetic confidence.

They say that the last thing a bug sees when it hits a windshield is its own ass. I am inclined to agree for that very moment when he looked at me, I felt much like a drifty hapless butterfly flittering across a desert road and fatefully meeting the window of a speeding Mac truck.

“… if you were to ask me to go home with you, I wouldn’t say no.”
In my panic, sheer and utter flummoxed panic I said the very first thing to come to mind, “Oh, my god! I knew I should have taken the kitchen trash out!”

He looked at me in blank astonishment, “Excuse me?”

I rambled, “I didn’t take the kitchen trash out today and now the house smells funny and I don’t know because I haven’t cleaned up and I just…”
I suppose it’s possible he was feeling his own brand of Mac Truck at the moment. As I rambled I could hear a voice inside my head screaming – “SHUT THE FUCK UP AND SAY YES, YOU IDIOT! Just stop talking and take his hand and lead him out!!!”

There are times I’d give my right ovary for a built-in six second nationally televised buffer to edit what happens in my brain before it reaches my mouth.

His mouth clicked shut and he blinked as I ran out of breath and stopped to gulp air.

There was a tremendous awkward silence and when I could breathe again I said, “Can we just talk for a minute while I think about it?”

I suspect he was too surprised to say anything by “Sure.” And we returned to a tilted and halting conversation while my back brain flew in dazed circles.

I’m a grown woman, I reasoned. I haven’t had sex, good satisfying sex in almost a year and almost a year before that and a prior two year self-induced celibacy that may have starved my brain of oxygen and left me somewhat retarded. Oh, my god, am I really retarded?

Of course not, I reasoned. I’m just rusty and out of practice. Hey, Athena, you remember how when you turned 21 you set out on a personal mission to discover your sexuality? You were determined to be able to write erotica with an open mind and detailed accuracy – remember how you broke free of preconceived and social bindings to embark on a non-vanilla lifestyle adventure of, power-struggles, psychology, being a swinger, experimenting with non-monogamy, figging, flogging, bondage and safe words? Remember how you used to be good at this before you were shocked into fear by heartbreak? I know you remember it on some level because you still write erotica that speaks these things. Remember? Remember that you usually regret the things you don’t do? Remember how if you want to get back to dating and loving and experiencing a great connection – this is part of that? Get it together, woman. Find your center. Breathe.

I know you’ve shut this out for a long time for self-preservation and for the desire to have clarity… but you here you are - clearly still a functioning woman with desire and need and he is offering to help you open up again. Do you remember how you have been an unashamed, unabashedly sexual creature? You have been taking a time out but it still smolders deep within and maybe it’s time to give some air to the embers…

I interrupted the conversation to say, “If it would be fun to go home with me tonight… would it also be fun just to have a conversation tomorrow. Maybe another drink tomorrow?”

He smiled, a beautiful stretch of white through his beard, and my world rocked a little when he said, “That would also be fun, yes.”

“Then why don’t you come home with me tonight, and we can talk some more tomorrow…”

I led him out and my knees felt fragile, my belly quivering with emotions and anxieties I haven’t had in years. Eric was outside and I waved him goodnight and thought – I wonder if he’ll read about his awesome guy on the blog. I’d dearly love to have a story that would show my readers a really good experience with a date. It would be great not to have to be the bearer of bad news all the time.

And so it was that I brought him home with me, but not everything is as it seemed. Stay tuned for the outcome, the inevitable turn of events that I should have seen coming. No pun intended. Stay tuned for the experience that has left me doubting I will ever be able to adequately write the complexity of the human experience. Our inflated desires crippled by our shattering insecurities.

I need time to quantify it. So this rest of the story will have to be thought upon as to how I can word it.

Stay tuned…for full disclosure.

www.theblissquest.com

And now back to our regularly scheduled programming, Adventures in Brazilian Wax.

There are moments in the BlissQuest when I think, “Oh! That’s a great idea for a quest!” or “Maybe I have been too adamantly against this for too long, I should give it a try and see what I’m missing!” Then ultimately, when it doesn’t work out like I plan or imagine my last thought is, “At least it will make an interesting blog entry.”

Strangely, as I climbed up onto the table in the back room of the salon, I thought none of these things, in fact the only thing that crossed my mind as Mindi wrapped a towel around my waist and I heard the crackle of paper under my body was… “What the fuck am I thinking?! This is a terrible idea! Run away! Run now before it’s too late!”

Mindi bustled around as I tried vainly to get comfortable and ran the mantra over and over, “You are no longer in your body. You are in Mexico, on a beach and there are beautiful cabana boys…”

Somewhere, someone was pulling on my ankles, “Yous must undo legs.”
As if some spastic muscle had locked in a frozen position, my ankles were crossed and Mindi was tugging at them then sighed and gave me a dirty look.

“I’ve never done this before,” I said. “I’m not really sure what to do.”

Mindi is a Vietnamese woman in her 40’s and the proud owner of a new salon where I often come to get pedicures. She compliments me on my eyebrows every time I come in and then tries to sell me a bikini wax “I do you in lest an half hour! *Rip!* Rip!* And you done!” She always says it with a flourish of hand motions as if she’s yanking the strip then laughs in a tinkling giggle. This repetition of her 30 minute bikini wax spiel has earned her the nickname “the butcher”.

I focused all my Jedi power on unlocking my ankles but the spasm shimmied up my calves and locked again at my knees.

Mindi is probably a foot shorter than myself and 95 lbs if that, but I swear to god, that little woman could lift a car off someone as though it were a candy wrapper – she has got major muscles in those skinny arms because one good crank sent my legs shooting apart on the table and I felt a blast of cold air hit a region that hasn’t seen sun since 2004.
Interestingly, now a fear of looking like a stupid idiot was actually more terrifying than the thought of the immense amount of pain I was about to endure so my legs actually stayed open of their own accord, like wild creatures frozen in the oncoming headlights of ultimate doom.

Mindi’s air of detached professionalism should have been a great comfort to the nagging worry that somehow my hoo-ha was a god-awful forest wherein there may be the discovered remains of Hansel and Gretel. Yet her silence and focus as she wiped me down with alcohol triggered some dormant response to talk. And by talk let’s be honest folks, it wasn’t like an observational sentence and then some quiet reflection about the state of the universe. Whatever triggered hit a button that went like so… “This is a really lovely shade of blue paint. What is that like blueberry? No, too light for blueberry maybe its bluebell or something I bet there’s a chart for this sort of thing but I guess you already knew that cuz you probably picked out the color yourself did you pick it out yourself…” And on and on….

She slapped a popsicle stick of hot wax on my snatch and for a moment the world went still. I forgot to breathe. I forgot my name. Knowledge of the next inevitable step made me snap my gaze to the ceiling as I couldn’t make myself watch. The fabric strip gripped the wax base and I thought for a heartbeat, “Maybe I’m overreacting. Maybe this isn’t actually going to hurt? Maybe I have a higher pain threshold than I – “

“HOLY CHRIST FUCKING BATMAN ON A WAX GOOD GAWWWWDDDDD!!!!!!”

And the world turned fuzzy for a moment. Pain. Pain. Burning. White. Hot. Pain. The really funny thing about that sort of pain is that it temporarily lobotomizes your mind of things like; speech, logic, and that pesky filter that sits between the two.

“See?” Mindi asked, “Das noso bad, huh?”

My pain-burdened mind suddenly believed I was Wesley from ‘The Princess Bride’ when he’s strapped to the table and the “Machine” just sucked a year of his life away, and the six fingered man says, “How do you feel? And remember, this is for posterity, be honest.”

I whimpered and looked down at the blazing red and swollen patch missing from my crotch, then looked at Mindi who was clearly pleased with her work and asked, “Would you be terribly offended if I started crying?”

“Oh! You no start to cry! Das berry not good!” She said while rolling her eyes and shoving me back down.

“Then, is it socially acceptable if I quietly pass out?” I whispered.

She sighed as if terribly put upon by a stupid woman and said, “You just howd still.”

And like that, she really got started. Rip. Wax. Rip. Wax.
And I continued. Yelp. Whimper. Yelp. Whimper.

The female genitalia has over 6000 nerve endings in less that 5 square inches.

You know how there are times, god forbid, that you are zipping up your pants and you catch a stray curly in the zipper and before you can save it you have a tear-jerk response that travels at light speed from your yaya to your tear duct? Now multiply that feeling by 6000 and multiply again by 32 strips of waxing fabric and you might just come close to imagining what it feels like to have mass deforestation of the v-thatch. All this while I babbled, whimpered, squirmed, reasoned, tried to leave once, muttered, pretended to ignore her and the pounding pain and even tried to count but couldn’t get past 43.

Mindi wasn’t shy, and had no qualms about just rooting around in there or trying to hoist a leg up to a better angle or complaining out loud that I apparently use Nair, as it has given me, “Berry stubborn hair!” She complained about this half a dozen times and I wanted to shout at her, “I doubt it’s the Nair, I mean honestly, my poor little hairs are probably scared shitless because they know you are trying to yank them out by the roots! They are just holding on for dear life!”

Mindi fussed over my parts and grumbled in Vietnamese occasionally slipping into English for things like, “Nair. Berry bad.” Grumble. Grumble. Vietnamese. Grumble. “Dis berry stubborn. Berry bad.”

I don’t know about anyone else, but the last thing I want to hear from a trained professional between my legs is the phrase, “Berry bad.”

In between these moments, she asked a lot of questions – I suspect to keep me talking and focused. “You do dis for you husband?”

“No. I’m not married.”

“Ah, you boyfriend? You have big party?” She asked with a wink.

“No, I don’t have a boyfriend either.”

I saw by her look that she thought about asking if it was for my girlfriend but instead she asked with more than mild disbelief, “you do it jus for youself?” She paused and looked at me, “Why you do dis?”

“Well, I wanted to know how I would react to it. I didn’t want to think I’d try it for a special occasion of something and discover that I broke out in hives, or a rash of ingrown hair, or you know, possibly died.”

She snorted, “You no gonna die!” She rolled her eyes and went back to the pot for another glob of wax.

After what seemed like years, she said, “Watchyou think?”

I lifted myself up and looked down at my mutilated hoo-ha. I couldn’t believe how close her face was to my snatch as she poked around and when she looked up she appeared disgruntled and reached for a pair of tweezers…

“Oh! No, no you don’t need to do that… it’s o-KAY!!!”

Clearly unconcerned with my opinion, Mindi gleefully plucked me like a dead chicken and I flopped backward onto the paper covered table and thought, “This was” PLUCK “a really” PLUCK “really bad” PLUCK “idea”.

While it seems to go on forever, the human brain does the time warp when its all over and when she said, “Okay, You done.” I sat up faster than I’ve ever sat up in my life and it was like I had just walked into the tiny blue room a second ago. I was throbbing from the waist down but I was absolutely ready to go home and cry about it in private. I couldn’t wait to get someplace safe so I could make sure there was still a little man in the boat.

“Okay. Now roll over.” She said.

“Excuse me?” I asked.

“Roll over. You roll over now.”

“Why?” I asked with dawning horror, a lump of fear building in the pit of my stomach. No-longer-pregnant-Ninja had teased me that a Brazilian included the butt crack but I totally thought she was joking. “You’re not going to do what I think you plan on doing, are you?” I didn’t even recognize my own voice.

“You no completed till we get all of it. Roll over now and howd open.” She reached behind her back and gripped her own cheeks to show me how I was expected to behave.

More out of confusion and disbelief – I did exactly what she told me to do and I rolled onto my belly and YUP! I spread my own cheeks and at that very moment, as the humiliating and dehumanizing loss of my dignity came crashing down upon my awareness and I knew – just knew I was going to have to blog this ridiculous farce – I burst into uncontrollable laughter.

I didn’t just chuckle. It wasn’t a simple ha-ha. It was a full belly, ass jiggling, abrasively loud snorting laugh. I sounded like a wild, braying beast with my face pressed against the paper of the table and my body left nothing to the imagination as I guffawed loud enough for the entire salon to hear. Yes, folks, for the record, a Brazilian Wax does in fact include your ass crack.

“See! Its no even hurt! You laughing!”

“It’s more funny than painful,” I gasped between laughing and I continued to laugh as she spread the wax and let me tell you guys – you have no idea what kind of pucker power you have until the moment an aesthetician sticks hot wax in your crack and says, “Don’t move.”

I was still laughing as the appointment ended and still chuckled as I struggled back into my pants and waddled to the car with my butt cheeks glued together by residual wax.

The overall experience left me with this conclusion, THIS IS NOT SEXY! There was nothing remotely sexy about having some woman yanking hair from my cooch. There is nothing sexy about the swollen, red, aftermath of a “fashionable” treatment. There is nothing sexy about the bald yaya. There is nothing sexy about the second day itch. There is nothing anywhere fucking close to sexy about the regrowth bumps. There is nothing sexy about the stubble. Nothing.

THERE IS NOT ONE SEXY THING ABOUT THE BRAZILIAN WAX JOB.
Not. One.

And yet… I couldn’t stop laughing.

www.theblissquest.com