Friday, May 11, 2012

THE VIBRATIONAL WOES OF SEXLESS EXISTENCE.


When I began a long-distance relationship that literally spanned the United States, I wasn't sure what to expect.  I've done long-distance before.  It never worked.  In my past geographically challenged relationships, lack of sex was the least of my problems and worries, which were more likely to include getting "cut off" by wannabe Wall Street bankers, constant intoxication by both parties, excessive psychedelic drug use by me (not sure this was actually a problem), midnight panic attacks, and secret crushes on boys who were really into the theatre.  When you start falling for guys who shave their chests you know shit's not working out for you.  I was always dealing with a bunch of moving parts that never quite ended up meeting up, moving parts being my vagina and a bunch of penises that just never seemed to stiff up and get the fuck into it.  

That said, when my boyfriend moved to California and I moved to Virginia, opposites in so many ways, I didn't consider the void of sexless existence I was facing.  It hit me hard and all at once, cruelly:  lack of penetration turns me into the stereotype of a 37 year old single woman.  It started to dawn on me on the night Liz Lemon and I chose the exact same Friday night plans.  There's a great episode of 30 Rock where she turns down a bunch of really appealing, exciting plans to go home and eat a meatball sub with extra bread.  The reason I saw the episode is that I'd turned down a bunch of wild-night plans so I could sit on my couch and eat every last bite of the greasy delivery Thai food I'd ordered for myself.  You can eat it all when nobody's watching…or looking at you naked.  The next red flag took place in one of Richmond's outdoor malls when I was inexplicably drawn to a section of pant suits.  I, horrified, walked toward the polyester suits as if drug by an unstoppable force, knowing that what was happening was unnatural at best, the death of my sexuality at worst.  As I fingered the starchy material, I felt my youthful pussy dry up to the consistency of those barren fibers, and I realized I didn't remember what sex felt like.  "Is this how you feel, Hillary?", I thought.  "Dressed in manly-ass pleated pants, never again to have sex with your white-haired cigar wielding partner?"  I swear to God I felt my hymen repair itself right then and there in the ladies' business suit section of Macy's, and I shed a tear, not for my lost sense of innocence, but for the loss of my status as a raging slut.

Something had to be done.

After a tangle with a bout of Asian fetish porn and my electric toothbrush, which left me with an ominous sense of shame for days, I began to comb through the plentiful sex toys lurking on the internet.  The only problem was that none of the toys I found were "my boyfriend's great cock", and that's all I really want to come home to.  What comes the closest?  What gets me the closest to coming?  I don't want some big wobbly veiny fake penis, and the Rabbit was featured on Sex and the City for god's sake.  Carrie Bradshaw doesn't have a real job, apartment, or vagina.  What's a girl to do?  I need a break-through for this new and unwelcome quarter-life-crisis hymen.  I need to have a decent orgasm without the help of something I'll be putting in my mouth moments later (oh shit, that just turned me on).  I need to return these godawful pant suits.  I need some goddamn help, so GIVE IT TO ME.