Common Core Math is a part of a conspiracy which subdues children into drone-like states as part of an agenda to destroy the institution of public education. Although It has not yet been proven as an attempt to actively promote a homosexual lifestyle, many people believe it IS a Communist attempt to dismantle the federal government.

The common Core emphasis is on comprehension, not memorization. The wrong answer is the correct answer if you use 74 steps to get there! Getting the question right is so 2014. But you probably didn’t know Festive Beard Lights were a thing, either.

Here’s an example of Common Core, used in multiplication. In ye olden days, we lined up numbers neatly and carried over. Let’s multiply 26 times 39, Common Core style.

1. Round up 39 to 40, which is easier, because it’s a multiple of 10.

2. Now multiply 26 times 40, then subtract 26. But wait – you can’t just multiply 26 by 40. You want to multiply 26 by 10. Common Core folks are obsessed with the number 10. That’s not creepy or anything. So, 26 times 40 is really 26 times 10 times 4, which is 260 times 4.

3. But hang on, make it 250, which is far superior to stupid random 260. Isn’t this easier than the old timey way? Wheeeee! 250 times four is 1000, then add in that 10 you left out when you turned 260 into 250. So that’s 10 times 4 equals 40.

4. Now add that to the product of 250 times 4, which is 40 plus 1000, which equals 1040.

5. Oh, but WAIT!! You were supposed to subtract 26 because you multiplied it by 40 instead of 39!

 

Common Core is part of a conspiracy to ruin our children’s minds with strange new ideas. It’s a 20-minute-deep dive into a simple math problem meant to take 30 seconds, because we need more excruciatingly long and dragged out projects in today’s frivolous Insta-Pot world.

 

I have provided for you a sampling of Common Core math problems. Judge for yourselves.

Students at a university in China had to solve this for the WiFi password in a dining hall. Did they have to kneel on rice to gain access to the bathroom?

Was that racist? Because of the rice? Look, I’m not the one making students solve math to get a password. I like a good Hangzhou-Style Duck Pickled in Soy Sauce as much as the next person, but I’m not going to contribute to the misrepresentation of Asian people in the media.

 

You can’t add cherries and shamrocks. Cherries are small delectable globules of juicy red sweetness that make delicious pie filling. Shamrocks are for drunken Irish people.
And what is that thing with the green leaf toupee? Is that an orange, or a drawing of Donald Trump?

This picture disgusts me.

 

3.

Again, with the Chinese? This is racial profiling. Although if an Asian person wrote the question, are they racist? It’s very confusing. The Chinese woman who owns the drycleaners referred to herself as “Oriental” which we know is politically incorrect. But the dry-cleaning ticket has my work pantsuits listed as “lady pants” and that’s the best thing I’ve seen all week.

 

4.

As you can see, goats are a hugely popular retail item. This is due to the new trend “goat yoga”, which is a bunch of white people (shocker) doing yoga with goats.
I’m all for being nuzzled by furry creatures, but goats love to urinate on their own faces. Hard pass.

 

5.

This fresh hell is known as the “Rhieman Sphere.” Drawing this requires the use of a mathematical compass:

However, most schools have discontinued the use of these with the introduction of Common Core, because students were using them to gouge out their own eyeballs.

Common Core Geometry is especially useful for those pursuing a career in professional quilting.

 

This is what happens when you legalize marijuana. Just saying.

 

7.

Here we use a Common Core math proof to demonstrate that 1 actually equals 2.

Next, we’ll go over another Common Core proof which confirms that looking into the microwave while it’s running will deform all your future babies.

 

8.

This is clearly the work of Satan.

In fact, the Bible states, “And the devil said onto Methulea, I will take you up into a high mountain, to show you all the evil of the world in a moment of time, and it shall be Common Core Math. And on the 7th day, you shall listen to Black Sabbath.”

~Corinthians 25: or 6 to 4

 

9.

Why is Skylar measuring in metric? This is AMERICA! Metric measuring tools are not easily available in the US, which is a pain in the kazoos for my friend Olaf, a Swedish amateur woodworker, but getting back to Skylar – he identifies as a boy? Skylar is a girl’s name – a girl who goes to prep school with Piper and Sloane.

Also, don’t talk to me about measuring a maze. I’ve seen Children Of the Corn.

 

10.

I feel sorry for Ben’s parents. Those poor people spent a fortune on Ben’s education, and for what? So they can tell people their son is a “dynamic branding consultant?” Even worse, he makes 12 dollars an hour more than people who work at Walmart, and they actually DO something.

 

11.

This Common Core word problem is part of the “No Child Left Behind Without A Gun” Act.

 

It seems that money taxpayers trusted would be spent on education is being siphoned off by asset plunderers and money exporters on Wall Street. Has it been developed by a fringe group who worship the devil and plan to create a New World Order?

Let me get on my tinfoil hat and think about it.

Is Common Core Satanist, Communist, or connected to terrorist organizations?
Talk to me. I’m listening. 

 

Come hang out with me on Facebook so I can have friends without leaving the house

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It was 102 degrees the day the air conditioning crapped out on our tour bus. Mid August, somewhere between West Virginia and North Carolina.

20 writers trapped on a scorching hot bus. We drank to block out the oppressive heat. We were off the next day, so we showed no restraint. Not that we ever showed the slenderest thread of restraint.

It was the 90’s. We were in our 20’s. Do the math.

 

In the mid-90’s, spoken word poetry was HOT. The in-your-face nature of it, attacking gender, racial and economic social inequity, was perfect for that time. Which is why Perry Farrell decided to add a Third Stage to Lollapalooza for spoken word.

 

Slam Poetry

Slam Poetry is spoken word on steroids. A brutal poetry competition where judges quantify your talent with numbers on cardboard signs.

The New York City slam venue was a ruthless arena. You were heckled mercilessly the minute you stepped on stage, and if you wanted to stay on, you’d better be good.

I was.

Skinny little girl with a big fat mouth. I was featured in a documentary about the NYC slam scene and won a highly coveted spot on that ‘94 tour.

 

Lolla’s 1994 lineup was stellar. Nirvana. Green Day. Beastie Boys. George Clinton & the P-Funk All Stars. Cypress Hill. A Tribe Called Quest.

In April, Kurt Cobain put a shotgun to his head, and Nirvana was replaced by The Smashing Pumpkins.

A massive let down.

 

Tequila at Twelve

We opened the Third Stage at noon, blasting War’s “Low Rider.” I got things going, dancing onstage in my Lolla uniform, daisy dukes and combat boots. By 12:30, I was pouring bottom shelf tequila into the mouths of teenage babes from the jug I kept behind the sound booth.

We performed several sets of poetry a day. Our teen audience, enraptured by the spoken word scene, stalked us between sets, asking for autographs. It was heady stuff.

 

The downside was, the Third Stage was sponsored by MTV. We were expected to run moronic crowd participation skits, like “The Dating Game” and “Oprahpalooza.”  As our youthful rebellious response to the commercialism of MTV we decided to jack up the skits.

 

Girl-on-Girl Porn

I ran the Dating Game.

I’d pick an extremely hot, intoxicated Lolita to be the “Bachelorette” on stage, along with three guys. Right before she chose one, I’d yell, “Forget these losers! Pick ME!”

Then I’d start making out with her. I had a built-in radar that always found a girl who dug it. We’d end up rolling around on the stage, grinding and groping each other while the audience went completely bat shit crazy.

Word got around that there was live girl-on-girl porn on the Third Stage at 4:00. By mid-summer, it was one of the hottest tickets on the tour.

Thank God there were no responsible adults around.

 

 

 

Rock Stars and Poets and Bears, Oh My

The cool thing about Lollapalooza is that everyone, musicians, roadies and poets, milled about backstage together, ate together, partied together. Gradually, most of the musicans came to the Third Stage to check us out. As the tour wore on, some of us collaborated. A horn player from Parliament Funkadelic dug me and my poetry. He would come to the Third Stage to accompany my performances.

The dark, rich sounds of his trumpet wove around my words, letting the audience feel both the story in my poetry, and the story of how he and I felt about each other. Those seductive, late afternoon renditions of my spoken word were the pinnacle of my performing career.

For many, for most, it was the summer of love.

 

Okay. It was a total fuck fest.

On tour, everyone’s single. You never knew which musician would wake up on our bus, crawling out of the coffin-like sleep bunks. I won’t name names. I’m a star-fucker, not a name-dropper.

 

 

Some of my favorite tour moments took place after we closed the third stage at 6:00.

Every evening, I raced across the venue to Main stage to catch Parliment Funkadelic and worship at the altar of George Clinton. Clinton was an icon who dominated my R&B project girl childhood. I don’t get stupid about musicians, but I’d watch the P. Funk All Stars from backstage and fangirl the fuck out.

 

After, we’d, head to the Beastie Boys’ trailer where they set up a basketball court outside and played as their pre-show warm up. My horn player played against them every night. The Beastie’s were dope white boys from Queens, and I was fond of them, but I took perverse pleasure in watching my horn player stomp their asses across the court.

We drove through the night to the next city. No showers, no sleep, no exercise, no healthy food. Touring was grueling, so we bolstered ourselves with alcohol and drugs. We only checked into a hotel if we played the same city for more than a day. Then we had the luxury of a shower, but still, no one slept. With all of us set loose at a hotel for the night, neither did any of the other guests.

I chronicled the tour by talking into a hand-held tape recorder which I carried with me everywhere. I have the entire experience on tape. I recently moved, and unearthed the whole collection of cassettes.

I can’t bear to listen to them.

 

Returning Hero

I came back to New York victorious.

Clips from interviews and performances had been splattered across MTV. We had crossed over, melded performance poetry with rock and roll.

One MTV news clip was 10 seconds of me, my flaming red, 90’s hair bigger than my body, standing on the Beastie’s basketball court. All full of myself, and lots of tequila, I proclaimed “Spoken word is ROCK AND ROLL POETRY!” At the moment, my horn player stole the ball from Ad-Roc and made a running layup, and I screamed, “That’s what I’m TALKING about!”

It was played repeatedly.

I had offers to do articles. Books. I had performances scheduled. My phone rang incessantly. Managers wanted me. Agents wanted me.

Unfortunately-

I had acquired a bad habit. Without the tour, without the whole carnival of lights, sound and music…

My 10 seconds of fame so overwhelming, I could not handle it…

Or knew I couldn’t sustain it?

Something.

I lost myself.

 

I missed deadlines. Blew off performances, or showed up so high on smack, I’d stumble through a shit show and think I was spectacular.

I pulled the phone out of the wall, for days at a time. Heroin makes you antisocial.

A popular female journalist (I’m not going to say her name; she’s still around) interviewed me for a downtown New York City weekly newspaper (yes, that one). I showed up high, junkie girlfriend in tow. To the bemusement of the journalist, we spent the interview nodding off, waking up to bicker about my writing, the meaning of art, and who used up the last of our drugs.

The photographer snapped a picture of me asleep at the café table, coffee cup raised to my lips. Instead of writing about the spoken word movement, the journalist focused on downtown druggie nihilism masquerading as art. She made me the poster child for 1990’s drug-addled self-sabotage in a hatchet piece called “How to Destroy Your Writing Career.”

They never ran that story. I faded, mercifully, into obscurity.

 

Most of the poets I knew from that tour are successful writers.

I never discuss it. People who know me today don’t even know it ever happened.

Maybe it didn’t.

 

 

When I first wrote this story in 2013, I ended it with an homage to the genius of Kurt Cobain. I quoted “All Apologies” and loftily asserted that I needed to forgive myself for squandering my opportunity.

Five years later, I see the truth. The story that journalist wrote IS my story. I am a master of self sabotage. I fear success more than failure.

There is nothing else in the world that I want to do more than write, yet it brings up every fear I have about not being good enough.

I wrote an essay about mental illness, and when I was honored for that essay at a writing conference, I was ironically so anxiety-ridden I never left my hotel room.

Paradoxically, I see myself as both magnificent and inadequate. If I achieve any level of success as a writer, it creates such cognitive dissonance that I need to massage my psyche back into alignment with drugs, with sex, with bad decisions.

I am the Queen of Bad Decisions – I may go down, but it will be in beautiful fiery flames of my own making. I get to control my own failure, rather than let it blindside me.

The book that lives inside me goes unwritten. Surely I would be exposed to the writing community as a fake. The belief that I am a fraud is called Imposter Syndrome. It (along with massive Daddy Issues) has bought my therapist her beach house, but I’m certain it will be rooted in me until the day I die.

 

Here I feel safe. Here, I have a small, fiercely devoted group of followers, and your love for me and my words does not scare me. It’s a sweet miracle that every time I hit “Publish,” there you are.

Thank you.

Talk to me.
All this self-awareness has given me a giant migraine, but I’m listening.

I got a voicemail from a guy who had heard I was a singer and invited me to sing a few songs with his band at a gig that Saturday. In case you’re wondering how he got my number, I don’t know. This past summer I was practicing to perform some songs with the ex-boyfriend’s band, which never materialized. I did, however, tell everyone that I now sang with a band, including the dude at the post office who was helping me track down the “Good Morning I See the Assassins Have Failed Again” mug I had ordered from Etsy. Which apparently had been delivered to the wrong address so Post Office Dude took my number and I think he gave it to a guy who gave it to a guy.

Or something. Who the hell has time to play Inspector Gadget when fame and fortune come knocking at your door?

I was initially hesitant. I haven’t sung in front of an audience since college when I fronted a punk band called Freddy Fetus and the Coat Hangers, but in MY MIND I’m a singer. In my car and in my shower, I’m a goddamn singer. This guy I was dating, whom my friends referred to as “Mr. Atlantic City,” said “You’re gonna go sing with some band you’ve never heard, without rehearsing, and just WING IT in front of an audience? That’s a terrible idea, you’ll be TERRIBLE” so of course now I HAD to do it.

Atlantic City is Las Vegas with a yeast infection. Mr. AC owned a weekend house there, so for the last few months our dating consisted of cavorting around town until 5 am. There’s so much more to DO there than there is in the suburbs, what with the casinos, the cash for gold places, the tranny prostitutes and getting shot. His house has an elevator, and in case you’re wondering if the very rich are indeed different from the rest of us, yes they are. In a recent study which I made up, scientists concluded that 100 percent of men who drive Bentleys with vanity plates “are jackholes.” Mr. AC wanted to do only what HE wanted to do. He was furious with me for cancelling our weekend casino debauchery to go sing, even though I invited him along. No dice. (see what I did there?)

On our first date Mr. AC declared “I’ll pay for you to get a boob job, but only if they’re HUGE” and I hadn’t even mentioned wanting one. But fuck yeah, if you’re buying me titties, I’ll take three. He was also pissy because in two months he had wined, dined but not yet vagined me.  Rich dudes don’t expect to wait for sex. Every time we spoke on the phone he ended the conversation by saying “GROW THAT RUNWAY BABY” which is surprisingly less charming than it reads. Did I mention he had an elevator in his house?

Breaking the date was the end of our relationship. He was fun, and good-looking, especially from certain angles like when he was reaching for his wallet, but it was for the best. On our last casino romp he’d won $600 at the craps table, which he’d tossed at me and said “use this for something sexy to wear the next time you see me” and I was struggling to figure out how to make my utility bills look sexy.

The gig was in South Jersey, which is so white-trashy it should be a separate country from America. They have a completely different world view down there;  the number one recreational hobby is aggravated assault and “MILF” is a career objective. The entire southern tip of New Jersey smells like the inside of a fake leg. The minute you drive south of Exit 100 on the Garden State Parkway, you can hear the twanging of dueling banjos. The gig, coincidentally, was in the same town where the ex-boyfriend lived. No, I did not invite him. We haven’t spoken since we ended our relationship amicably, and by amicably I mean I was screaming ‘YOU LIMP DICK MOTHERFUCKER” on his front lawn.

I went to the band’s website to look at their song list, and I decided to sing ‘Brown Eyed Girl’and ‘Can’t Take My Eyes Off Of You.’ Yeah, I know, you think of me as all punk rock and Nirvana but schmaltzy lounge music is SO my jam. You haven’t lived until you’re heard  Robert Mitchum mumbling his way through “Mama Looka Boo Boo.” In the privacy of my home, I wipe off the heavy winged eyeliner, throw on some Bonnie Bell Lip Ssmackers and rock the fuck out to the Fifth Dimension.

I got to the club and it was packed. PACKED. I met the bandleader, a bearded, portly HIspanic dude. I knew I had made yet another of my famous bad decisions when he asked me what key I wanted to sing in. What KEY? Is this a gig or are we taking our fucking SATs here? I tried to deflect him by playful responding “oh you’re such a troublemaker” and lightly smacking him in the jowls which is what people in South Jersey do to show affection. Beat one another.

That’s when I began drinking shots. I’m a lightweight when it comes to alcohol. As a matter of fact my superpower is turning tequila into crippling regret, but hey, I was at a bar in South Jersey and when in Rome, right? Since it was too late to get a bad tattoo or develop adult acne I started pounding shots of Patron.

A bleached blonde who’d known these guys for 20 years was sitting up front with her husband and decided she was my new best friend. She bought me shot after shot and told me all about her affairs and her 2 grown kids in rehab. Once I’d drank enough tequila to let my brain cells leak out my asshole, I completely forgot the words to ‘Brown Eyed Girl,’ and she was kind enough to write them for me on a napkin. When I told my bestie about this, she asked, “a sanitary napkin?” but NO, a cocktail napkin. Although looking back I wish I HAD gone on stage with a sanitary napkin because that would have been like in 1974 when an inebriated John Lennon stuck a Kotex on his head at a nightclub and John Lennon is a GOD.

When I got on stage the band leader dude handed me a tambourine. I was all SMASH THE PATRIARCHY WOULD YOU HAND ME THIS IF I WERE A MAN? so I said, “Don’t give me this, I don’t play the tambourine! FUCK your tambourine, man!” And then I said “that’s actually the name of that song. People think it’s ‘Tambourine Man’ but it’s really ‘FUCK Your Tambourine Man’”and I cracked myself up so much the band had to play the intro a very long time until I could stop laughing.

That went so well I decided to do a sexed up version of ‘Can’t Take My Eyes Off Of You.’ It was less a song and more me dry humping the band leader. My friends on Facebook were disappointed I didn’t get video of this but imagine, if you will, a drunk Jessica Rabbit with one bad leg giving a clumsy lap dance to Puerto Rican Santa Claus.

When it was over, my new best blonde friend said “Well, you LOOKED good” and some chick gave me her card and told me she was a vocal coach and that I should call her. Like, immediately. The band didn’t invite me to sing with them at their gig next month but I’m gonna show up anyway. I’m getting my sanitary napkin ready and practicing the Fifth Dimension’s ‘Wedding Bell Blues’ and that’s a string of words I never thought I’d put together. But there you have it.

 I present me singing, unironically, “Can’t Take  My Eyes Off Of You.” Recorded live this morning in my bathroom so please excuse the clunking sounds in the background as I got ready for work.
The recording ends abruptly, but so do many things:

https://www.smule.com/recording/frankie-valli-cant-take-my-eyes-off-you/1624246345_2641155142/frame

Come hang out with me on Facebook so I can have friends without leaving the house.

I’m 5 minutes into a conversation with a woman who works as a hospice nurse when I realize my life has no purpose.

I’ve spent my life trying to create meaning from brokenness. Smash the mirror and the shards reflect rainbows. I’ve told my stories; I’ve birthed a child and made a home; I’ve cleaned bathrooms at the Statue of Liberty; I’ve used up at least 7 of my 9 lives but nothing I’ve accomplished rivals her love for the dying.

I was three when my father died. All I remember of him are pancakes shaped like Supergirl and the day police came to the door to tell my mother he was dead. “Oh, you have the wrong family,” she laughed, with her gravelly cigarette-flavored laugh. A laugh borne of desperation because who dies at 46 and leaves his wife with six kids? My mother wept and wept and then I was sent away to a group home to live.

I learned early how to go away in my head when people did things I didn’t like.

Seven months, two weeks and five days ago I took my last pill. “Fame, puts you there where things are hollow.” I am fameless, yet I live in that hollow place.

I’ve lost the one true love of my life. Opiates stoked the chemical blaze in my brain that told me the world was amazing. Nothing feels right, because nothing feels.

Wake up. Think about pills. Get ready for bed, think about pills. I double cleanse my skin, layering on serums and lotions and think about pills, bribe myself by saying this is self-care, this is MY time, but who really owns time? I’d like to have a talk with that motherfucker about letting the last couple of decades go by without me having achieved anything worthwhile.

My ex and I are splitting custody of my son this summer. We live so far from one another that I am spending my summer on the Garden State Parkway.

I used to love driving. I was a road warrior, a travel mug and ear-splitting music my shield and javelin. I could drive forever listening to Lenny Kravitz’s saxophone oozing out of my speakers like slow brown honey. This blistering summer, driving feels like a punishment for me AND the highway. My tires pummel miles of desiccated asphalt relentlessly.

Another brutally hot summer, my eighth, I was sent away to Camp Rainbow, a broken mirror of a place with a cheery subterfuge of a name. It was a camp for troubled children.

Was I troubled? What troubled me was having my waterfall of cascading red curls shorn into an ugly pixie cut. My mother saved the ponytail for years. Eventually my hair grew back, but in a tumbleweed of  unruly curls that jutted out from my head in a frizzy pyramid. The only remnant I had of those silky red waves was encased in a thick plastic bag.

Without the velvet cushioned rabbit hole of opiates, I have no interest in anything. Destroy the dopamine neurons in rats and they’ll starve to death, even with food right in front of them.

I can’t write. The only thing I want to write about is this, and I don’t want to write about it. Peel back the layers to find what? One doesn’t don’t peel layers of onion expecting to find gold. There is only more onion.

Eventually my oldest brother extricated me from that group home. In the year I spent there, I learned that trust is not a thing and abuse masquerades as love. True enough, I was rescued, but my story was of imprisonment, not rescue.

After that, I carried around a blistering orange sandstorm of rage that my small body could barely contain.

I know why the rescue dog bites.

Sea salt, tomato sauce, protein powder, brown sugar – I reorganize the pantry and think about pills. Later, he’ll ask “where’s the protein powder?” and I won’t remember. It was in the doing, not the thing itself. This is a kitchen meditation performed so I won’t vacuum my car and search for pills.

He’s a good man. But I watch him through eyes that belong to this new person, this woman who goes to sleep at 8 pm because being awake hurts.

He is sturdy, both in mind and body. He is earthy and rooted; the perfect yin to my dreamer yang, he of the melting guitar solos and rustic house by the bay and this would be an idyllic summer if only I could feel it.

I can’t feel my life.

There are pictures to prove it exists; at least fifty the day of my son’s 8th grade graduation. What is left now? How can he be a character in my story, now that he’s telling his own? What else can I give him aside from a deeply dysfunctional childhood?

I only hope it will make you funny, and compassionate. ‘Adversity builds character,’ I say, but what else is left to say when the house is gone?

There are amends to be made, mostly to me. I’ve squandered myself feeling excessively and numbing it to survive. This great Empty is not the selective numbing of drugs. Opiates barricade against pain while simultaneously allowing angels from heaven to kiss your brain.

This is nothingness. This is flat line.

The latest narrative of trendy personal transformation is that we are the masters of our own destiny. What first world arrogance it is, to claim that we alone are responsible for our own stories! New age frivolity has tricked us into believing that we are the average of people we spend time with. As if the nuances of spirit, essence, energy and inclinations are mathematical things.

Some of our stories are contracts with God, written before we have a chance to tell them. Long before I learned the meaning of the word “innocence” I had already lost mine.

For years I kept my addiction private, like a small secret talisman I carried around in my pocket for good luck. Now I need to loosen the choke hold it has on my life. I share this story as a chemist, hoping to dilute its concentration and in doing so, create a new solution.

When I do feel, it’s anger. The stigma attached to my addiction has devoured me from the inside out. Why are women permitted – encouraged, actually – to be impaired,  as long as it’s from alcohol? The boozy, wine-soaked mom is a tiresome social media trope. Where are the memes playfully celebrating mothers who pop Oxy?

I’m no longer ashamed of my addiction, nor do I judge those addicted to food, love, religion, sex, exercise, status, material possessions. You’re no doubt reading this on a smart phone you’re addicted to.

It’s inevitable. We have no chance against the science used to ensnare us in our own impulses, trapping us in the dopamine loop of mindless consumption. An individualized mass psychosis as a response to being human in a toxic world.

What is left to believe in? To whom do the faithless pray?

There must be something. It is a beautiful accident that we even exist; that billions of years ago fiery, chaotic forces swirled through empty space and formed our planet. Somewhere between the poles of life and death exists hope.

The story I tell now is of time, and numbers, and counting. It’s been seven months, two weeks and five days since I last used.

One day at a time.

One hour at a time.

One minute at a time.

Tick. Tock.

Talk to me. 
I’m listening. 

Join me on Facebook, so I can have friends without leaving the house.

 

Apparently not.

If you are a human, then you’ve heard about the Aziz Ansari debacle. You know, the incident in which “woke bae” Ansari pushed and pushed and pushed his date to have sex even though she was clearly not into it.

Many women are uniting in solidarity over their own similar experiences. However, just as many are condemning “Grace,” Ansari’s date. She went to his apartment, she got undressed, what did she expect? Why didn’t she just leave??

Even the New York Times published an opinion piece by Bari Weiss in which she says, “I am a proud feminist, and this is what I thought while reading the article: If you are hanging out naked with a man, it’s safe to assume he is going to try to have sex with you.”

For most of my life, I bought into that same line of reasoning. If I get naked with a man, then of course he’s going to try to have sex with me. Furthermore, I’m obligated, or else things can get ugly.

I believed this so resolutely, that for 20 years, I didn’t recognize that I had been raped in college. I remembered it as “the night this guy had sex with me when I didn’t want him to.”

For the record, I said no. I was at a party at his fraternity, and I went upstairs to his room with him to get high. I liked him; I wanted to kiss him. But that was all. I said “no.” I tried to fight him off; I did everything but scream “HELP! RAPE!” because  I was 18 and afraid and embarrassed. I didn’t want to create a scene with hundreds of people downstairs to overhear it.

Later, I shared the experience with only one person, who responded with, “well what did you expect?” and then I buried it.
Only in the last decade have I been able to understand that I was raped.

 

 

I’m extremely single. By that I mean, I’m a self-sustaining ecosystem. I’m fiercely independent. I’ve created a life the way I want it, and I dread the idea of having to make constant compromises. Relationships are hard, and if introducing a partner into my life is going to create drama and pain, I’d rather be alone.

The upside to marriage and relationships is the intimacy.

I miss intimacy.

I miss being held when things are not going right in my life. I like a man to wrap his arms around me and hold me, and stroke my back. I like the feeling of skin on skin.

I’m a highly sexual person, and I like kinky sex as much as the next wanton woman. Sometimes, though, I just want to lie next to someone who will hold me.

This never happens.

 

You see, if I lie next to a man, naked, he will (most likely) become aroused. And he will assume we’re having sex, because what did I expect?

This is the clarion call reverberating all over the Internet regarding Grace. She got naked, so of course he tried to have sex with her. Over and over, even though she asked him to chill out, even though she was not responding physically to him, even though she was visibly uncomfortable and said many things to indicate she wasn’t into it. She didn’t scream “NO” and storm out of there, so she deserved what she got, right?

Wrong.

Maybe she wanted to connect with him on an intimate level; kiss, hold him, touch – but not be treated like a blow-up sex doll. Maybe she found him funny and adorable, and was hoping to have some intimate contact that didn’t involve him sticking his claw fingers down her throat like they were reenacting some seedy Pornhub video.

I know that sex is a biological need, and that men are programmed to be hunters and conquerors. I wrote that story.

Eating is also a biological need. Does that mean I get to act like a savage, and grab food off of your plate when you are clearly not into sharing?

Women are socialized from an early age that we are responsible for men’s sexual excitement, and if they get aroused, we’d better do something about it. Men are culturally programmed to believe that the endgame is sex – even if a woman seems lukewarm about it. To keep pushing until she gives in.

When my mother died/kid was in the hospital/furnace blew up/ I wanted to be held. In each of those instances, I knew men I could have visited. But there is no way they would have been open to just holding me without sex.

And until I have a boyfriend or a husband, I will not be entitled to lay next to a man, skin on skin, and simply be held. If we should kiss, or stroke one another’s bodies, he is going to expect sex. And if he’s an inept lover who watches a lot of porn, he’s going to do crude things that women don’t really enjoy. Picture this scenario:

Me: *lies in his bed, wanting comfort because my mother just died*

Him: *fishhooks my mouth*

 

There are so many social situations that require careful monitoring of the other person’s reaction. We teach our kids to follow social cues, so they know if they’ve crossed a line or invaded someone’s personal space.

Why is this not the case in sex? Of all personal interactions, this is one in which careful monitoring of the other person’s reaction should be imperative.

The Ansari incident is unfortunate, because he was simply doing what he thinks is normal dating behavior. But it started a necessary conversation, and hopefully we can eventually dismantle this ridiculous cultural programming of expected sex.

By the way, I work two jobs to support my family. If you take me out for a nice dinner and pay, you’d better be prepared to pay my mortgage and utility bill. I’m a struggling single mom. Don’t be a tease.

 

Are there any women who HAVEN’T had sex when they didn’t want to? 
What is with the “claw fingers in the mouth” move? 
Talk to me. I’m listening. 

 

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