Mr. 10(A) High School Musical

Carrie –  For the past nine months, I have withheld my re-born again virginity from potential suitors in hopes that the next guy that I slept with would amount to something more. Not necessarily as in a boyfriend and not even necessarily more than one night (although ideal) – I’m talking about someone that I felt a connection with.

What was this weird self-imposed pressure to make it meaningful? Well, you see, the next guy I would sleep with would be my tenth. For someone who lost her virginity to someone she loved for five years after, I hadn’t ever envisioned myself having sex with more than one partner, much less eight others after that. Sex should be something more than lust, right? I started losing what sex had meant to me so I became infactuated with this idea that hitting double digits – the big 10 – should be something. Maybe 10 would even be my next One + Nothing (1 + 0) because everyone else before that didn’t really mean much.

Yet alas, the spell has been broken…

10(a) : Mr. High School Musical

            Upon heading back into the cesspool that is Ottawa from my May abroad, I felt hopeful my first few days of June. “Summer is the best season in Ottawa,” everyone boasted. With a best friend from the 6ix moving in with me for the summer and a good drinking crew, I was looking forward to Canada’s 150th anniversary in the capital.

Continue reading “Mr. 10(A) High School Musical”

Ms. All About That Bass

Yup, you guessed it, I hooked up with a girl. A really cool bass-playing, long hair having, bra-wearing female. It was a Saturday like any other and Miranda and I were out in Kensington causing trouble when we stepped outside for a smoke. Well, to be clear I was not smoking, but instead lecturing those around me about the danger of cancer sticks.  Anyway, I stood alongside Miranda and another fellow ranting away when a girl approached us asking for a light. She was playing bass in the “battle of the bands”-ish event happening across the street and asked if we wanted to come watch. Being the loveable, free-spirit that she is, Miranda was immediately down and we headed inside.

The details aren’t important, but I could tell very quickly that this girl was interested in getting to know me in a very non-friendship sort of way. The night soon progressed to us very publicly making out in the middle of the bar, which according to Miranda looked just like a mass of dark, curly hair flailing about. This was soon followed by a slightly inebriated conversation with myself in the bathroom that went something along the lines of…

  • Me: But you’re not into girls in a sexual way…
  • Also me: So what, you’re into sex!
  • Me: Good point.

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I’ve never been with a girl before. I mean, I made out with one once in Barcelona and had a couple kisses with some friends in high school, but that’s about it. Nonetheless, nothing felt weird or forced so I just went with it. Funnily enough, Ms. All About that Bass said that I gave off lesbian vibes (whatever that means) and I actually do have a reputation for getting drinks from women at bars, so I didn’t blame my friends for not being surprised when I told them about our hookup. In fact, Miranda was the most surprised, at the fact that I hadn’t ventured into same-sex hookup territory before.

We ended up having a great time together, and a great hookup. We clearly had chemistry and got along really well, as I said nothing felt forced at all. I left her place around 4am, throwing out some excuse about walking the dog that I’d been taking care of that week and that was it.

Anyway, I woke up the next morning feeling really giddy and a little guilty. We’d had fun together and I didn’t regret that at all, but I was feeling weird about how MUCH fun we’d had. Our convos from the night before pointed to an actual connection (romantic, friendship, or something different all together) so I didn’t really want to blow this girl off like I might another one night stand. At the same time, she is out, proud and had been for years, and I was still trying to figure out what this hookup meant to me, if anything at all.

I am a millennial at my core so I obviously don’t think that sexuality is cut and dry. Hooking up with guys throughout my life makes me no straighter than hooking up with this girl makes me gay and there’s no need to label it as one way or another. However, I definitely wasn’t looking to pursue anything and this led to me acting pretty awkward when she texted later the next day. I’m not proud of this but my responses were very short and distant, I was acting like a total “fuckboi” and this really bothered me. I’ve been on the receiving end of enough similar situations to know that if I was her, I would not like how I was behaving. The ambiguity of the situation was a tough one for me to navigate and she stopped texting me after picking up on that vibe. All week it was bugging me that I’d acted in a way that I so often condemn. I wasn’t overtly mean, but we both knew what I was doing and that just wasn’t cool.

Cut to the next Saturday when I received a text from her asking if I wanted her to drop off the stuff that I’d left at her place. I was so thrown because honestly, who’s that nice??? Definitely none of the guys I’ve dated! Feeling even worse about how I’d acted I said she could just toss my stuff out if she wanted and again she stopped texting…rightfully so. She’d handed me the second opportunity to explain myself but I punked out.

After letting her message fester for the next 12 hours, I texted her and explained why I had essentially gone like the wind. While I may have padded my response a little, I basically stated that she was awesome and I just wasn’t sure what I want right now. This is actually true, but more in the context of whether or not I want a relationship, not whether or not that relationship is with a man or a woman. To her credit she was extremely cool about the whole thing and grateful for the explanation. We left things amicable enough that I probably could message to hang out in the future if the mood struck again.

The biggest surprise of this whole thing turned out to be how easily we understood each other. She knew what I was implicitly saying through my friendly but dismissive messages and I knew she was looking for an explanation. Men always say women are impossible to understand but we really got each other because I was able to actually put myself in her shoes (or combat boots lol).

At the end of the day I still want to end up with a man and missed the sex part of our hookup, despite how bomb it may have been. Nonetheless, I leave this with a reinforced disdain for ghosting and a much greater appreciation for my own sexuality and the complications that come with it.

Mr. Special Ops

Carrie – When my friend offered me her place to stay in Seoul and my credit card supplied me with free flights, I impulsively booked my four Asian-metropolis trip for May: Tokyo, Shanghai, Busan and Seoul.

We met interesting people along the way, that’s for sure. One night in Tokyo, we ended up at as the only two girls at this karaoke bar, where I proceeded to get serenaded and dipped by the big, burly bartender to Enrique Iglesias’ “Hero” (song is forever ruined).

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Cue to my last weekend Seoul, where I develop what I will term “Seoul Goggles” which is essentially a “do it for the blog” mentality.

Continue reading “Mr. Special Ops”

Mr. “Oh Yeah”

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Making noise in the bedroom is usually gratifying for both parties. When you hear a moan escape from your partner’s lips, you know you’re doing something right.

Unfortunately, some people take it out of hand. I’ve categorized these people into:

(1) Screamers
(2) Chatter-boxes
(3) Excessive moaners

The screamer is someone who sounds like they’re being ripped apart when they orgasm. They’re not just loud when they’re close to climaxing but rather release a shrill like yell, the type you hear in horror movies when someone just got caught by the murderer.

I lived with a screamer once. I thought I was home alone until I heard someone yell at the top of their lungs. I lunged for a kitchen knife because I thought someone broke into my apartment and killed my roommate. NOPE, just an orgasm.

The chatter-box can take one of two forms. The first is the overly-concerned chatter-box. This is the person who will repeatedly ask “do you like that?”. It’s important to be courteous to your partner but if I’m enjoying myself, shut up. The second is the dirty-talk chatter box. Some people may enjoy dirty talk, but everything has its limits. I’m comfortable with a few comments here and there but if you keep talking you’re going to ruin the mood. Like sir, we’re banging you’re not reading me erotica.

Recently, I encountered my favourite moaner. I have labeled this type the “oh no’s”.

I bumped into a guy I knew from undergrad a few weeks ago. We started chatting about a project we worked on together in school and how I was kind of a bitch because I was super keen. After reminiscing for a while we swapped numbers and said we’d catch up over drinks later that week.

Going for drinks, I had no idea whether this was a date or just two friends catching up. My plan was to go grab a couple drinks then go to a friend’s birthday party and have an early night.

Things didn’t quite play out as planned.

We met up for drinks at a really low-key place. We ended up really hitting it off. After a few hours of hanging out a couple of his friends came to join us at the bar. I mentioned my friend’s birthday and they took it as an invitation to join. So we all made our way to the next bar and continued to drink. Four beers and a gin-and-tonic later, this guy and I are making out on the dance floor like we’re first years at a frat-party.

Everything was going well and I was having a lot of fun with him. When he asked me to come back to his place, it only seemed natural to accept this invitation.

When we started fooling around I immediately had a flash back to that scene in Trainwreck where Amy Schumer is having sex with that really jacked guy and is just so not into it. At that moment I empathised with Amy.

This guy used to play football so he was pretty muscular. Unfortunately, while having sex there were points where he’d put all his weight on me. Having 180lbs crushing you isn’t really “sexy”. Not ideal but at this point I’m thinking it could only get better from there, right?

Wrong.

As I’m finally kind of getting into to it, I hear the words “oh yeah” escape his lips.

I’m thinking, okay… cool… guess I’m doing something right. Then I heard it again… and again… and again. This man was repeating the words “oh yeah” the entire fucking time.

There was a massive human being on top of me, closed eyes, and just repeating the phrase “oh yeah” while I lay silent and stunned. Was this man for real? Once the shock washed away the next step was not letting laughter escape me.

Like I was a participant in these activities. I could say from first-hand experience that it was not “oh yeah” worthy, much closer to “mmmm kay”. You’re not a god bud, you are a mere mortal with an average dong.

Dating Woes? You DESPERATELY Need to Read This Post

What’s the most vile word in the English language when it comes to matters of the heart?  I’ll give you a hint: Seth Cohen noticed it, Chandler Bing embodied it, and if you’re a millennial in today’s dating scene, you probably smell of it.

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Did you guess? If you did, well done! You’ve correctly identified the number one most avoided noun in the history of verbiage. Desperation in any form is bad enough as it is…no one says they’re jumping for joy desperation or choose to make the desperate choice first, but when it comes to dating this effect is 100 times worse.

Recently I heard an interesting podcast about the dominant hookup culture that rules the day (I swear my life doesn’t fully revolve around dating – just mostly). Sociologist Lisa Wade explained how a woman would rather be called a slut than be called desperate, because a slut may have slept with a bunch of guys but the desperate girl…well….at least when you’re a slut someone wants you.

*PAUSE TO TAKE IN THE FKD UP-NESS OF THAT SITUATION*

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What’s so sad is that I can’t even say that this is something I don’t identify with. I have definitely been in the unfortunate situation (more than once) where I did something with someone that I wasn’t fully comfortable with just to feel wanted, to feel like I fit in, or that I’m just like everyone else. Well, I’m here to tell you that the sad truth is that sleeping around doesn’t make you like everyone else. In fact, feeling desperate and alone probably brings you closer to feeling like the rest of us than getting laid does.

According to this article in NOW Magazine, which went absolutely VIRAL in Toronto, us Millenials are significantly less sexually active than our Gen X predecessors. People claim to be too busy for something meaningful and overwhelmed by all the option, and it’s really no wonder why. We work longer hours, spend more time with friends than family and let’s face it, technology is complicating everything. At the tips of our fingers are option after option making people feel dispensable, so should we really be surprised when they treat us like we are?

It’s unsurprising that if you’re constantly talking about sex but not having it that you’d wind up feeling a little desperado, and there is absolutely no shortage to the sexual imagery that exists in every facet of our culture. Even as I write this I’m surrounded by content hell-bent on turning me into an attention-seeking single. The desperate divas from The Bachelor Women Tell All are whining on TV, I’m listening to James Arthur’s “You’re Nobody till Somebody Loves You” and that article I mentioned earlier? The ad at the end was actually promoting a dating event for foodies!! ‘Foody call’…very subtle LOBLAWS.

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Realistically, sex when you’re dating falls into two main categories: a) completely meaningless or b) meaning everything. I swear, now more than ever, the only time you DON’T have sex with someone is when you actually like them. As if the very intimate act in and of itself is proof that you don’t care about the person you’re sleeping with. WHAT KIND OF TWISTED LOGIC IS THAT? Most shocking of all, this mentality is something we women actually STRIVE for. We want to appear aloof, detached and totally okay with it…the less you care the better off you are. HAH. That sounds healthy…

There really is no win for women because men want it both ways: they want a sexually deviant, hot woman who knows what she’s doing in the bedroom until they don’t. For a woman to be deemed acceptable of “wife-ing up” she should still be seen as “wholesome and respectful”, which apparently doesn’t mean being overtly sexual or too comfortable in the bedroom. See the problem? Not only do men have ALL the power in relationships, but they condemn us for embodying the very ideals that they promote. Most of the time we end up feeling cheap and desperate because the only thing harder than getting someone interested in you is keeping that interest for more than 10 seconds.

I had a very illuminating experience last weekend. I approached a guy at the bar and we had a great convo for quite a while. My friend “Julie” ended up cock-blocking me so when he asked me for my number later that night I was stoked. Well, without my knowledge, another friend of mine, “Sara”, berated her for being the world’s worst-wingwoman and told Julie to go fix the situation. Julie claims he asked her where I was but I have my doubts. The result? Me, left wondering if he asked for my number because he liked me or because someone told him to…Worst of all – how PATHETIC I feel for even explaining this to whomever reads this blog. Why? Because this shouldn’t be a big deal at all, but what started out as a nice interaction/little ego-boost ended up rocking my self-esteem.  When I messaged him later that night and got no reply I immediately felt like I was the poor girl who needed her friends to get someone to talk to her, even though I’m not. And that is not a good feeling.

As women we are often too hard on ourselves. We overthink our interactions with men and then get mad at ourselves for overthinking them – all because we don’t want to appear, you guessed it, DESPERATE. Who knows, maybe with time I’ll stop caring so much about looking some type of way. If a guy doesn’t like me for who I am then that’s on him not me. I’ll forget my fears and feel confident enough to say: “Hey, you’re great and we should hang out”.

Lol, Just kidding…I’m not that desperate.

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Bachelorette in Hell

 

Carrie – Move over Bachelor in Paradise, there’s a new show called Bachelorette in Hell and it is my love life. (That was cheesy, I apologize.)

Throughout the first few weeks of January, in order to get over my obsession with Mr. Heart Emoji, I distract myself with an app called Bumble where the girl has to talk to the guy first. Now, I’m pretty good with alluring men with one liners. In fact, I arrange three dates in one weekend.

Keeping em? That’s a different story (aka this blog post).

Continue reading “Bachelorette in Hell”

Mr. Heart Emoji – Part Two

[Hey, if you haven’t read Part One, you might get confused. Click the link here!]

Carrie – In true blackout fashion, I remember saying “cheers” with my gal pal and Mr. Heart Emoji on our third round of tequila shots. Then not much more.

I am blackout at the pre but in cruel, cruel fashion, my brain can recall one interaction. Profusely flirting with Mr. Grilled Cheese, we end up as the only two people in the one of two rooms, probably because I was making everyone uncomfortable with my aggressive flirtation. (I was told later I was doing this IN FRONT OF Mr. Heart Emoji because I am a fuckgirl). I drunkenly confess to Mr. Grilled Cheese, “Well like you’re the last person I’ve slept with! Aren’t I the last person you’ve slept with?”

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I still cringe at how much of an embarrassment I like to make my life. Then he stutters “uhhhh” for approximately a minute. I save him by telling him I know I’m not, call him a manwhore, and top it off with a, “But I know you’re into me.” To my dismay, he answers, “A little bit.” Me: “A little bit?” “Yeah, a little bit.” I swear I probably would have mounted him right there if we weren’t in public cause I am such a horny little drunk.

I end up at a bar. How I got there, not too sure. As far as I’m concerned, Mr. Grilled Cheese was not there. I remember snippets of sitting in a booth with my gal pals and Mr. Heart Emoji, and also snippets of drinking water out of the bathroom faucet, just to prove that 23 is still not a classy age. I think I had fun and my Visa bill proves that.

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Accurate depiction of me receiving my visa bill.

Now the next bit is where it gets interesting. There is a 24 hour diner near the bars in Ottawa. At that point, I was not aware of this. (Now that I am, that Visa bill will only continue to grow.)

Mr. Heart Emoji and I wind up there. Alone. I deduce he must have asked me to go at 2 AM because I’m confused why we’re in a booth alone and none of our friends join us. But I happily order a $16 burger (one that I later proceed not to eat a single bite of) when a classmate shows up. Now let’s call him Tree cause he is ridiculously tall and dresses like a lumberjack. Tree starts by asking if he’s interrupting me and Mr. Heart Emoji. We say no, then he sits beside me and Tree asks, “but you guys are gonna bang tonight, right?”

Continue reading “Mr. Heart Emoji – Part Two”

Mr. Heart Emoji – Part I

Carrie – I’ve gotten to a point in my romantic experience, or perhaps my confidence level, where I can tell where I stand socially when I walk into a party of new people. I can tell the girls that want to be my friend and those that are wary cause I’m new meat and they’re not sure if I’m a threat or not. I can tell which guys are not interested and which guys want to take up some of my time to see if they are. The latter are the guys that stand by you at the party in a social group they know, just to put less space between you two. They’ll accidentally bump into you if you’re at a party when someone passes by or they’ll do a turn on the dance floor at an opportune beat to start dancing with you. Sometimes I’ll entertain the conversations by the food table while I munch on the free chips, mainly so I don’t look like that big of an antisocial fatty. However, I’m a firm believer in not leading a guy on that I have no interest in and I’m an expert at being straight-up with a guy to say no. Actually, I’m quite rude. But I’d rather be alone than feel lonelier trying to feel something for someone who it’s just not there with.

All this confidence is lost when it comes to a guy that I actually like.

Continue reading “Mr. Heart Emoji – Part I”

Mr. Grilled Cheese

Carrie – I am no longer a young professional living in the 6ix. As much as I loved shitting around in what my father termed my “sabbatical” year in a great city, I’ve decided to move to a sleepier town. I’ve immerse myself back into an academic environment filled with intelligent, like-minded individuals, and a ton of… general douchebags. Welcome to the world of law school.

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Since I began two months ago, I have projectile vomited on a bus in front of my friends, peed behind a school building on campus, fallen on my face on a boat cruise, woken up with a leg full of bruises, developed viral conjunctivitis (aka a case of the pink eye), gotten a cold twice, and just generally killed it at life it seems. Maybe it’s the fierce female squad I’ve made (our group chat is the “Pro Boners”) and their bad influence on me but realistically, it’s probably just me.

One Saturday, after 12 hours in the library, my friend and I took one break to stop for linner at around 3. With that having been my only meal of the day, my mind being exhausted, and my overall track record of making bad life choices, I am fucked by 8:30 p.m. when we head over to this bro’s house for a pre.

I show up and I am the most ‘lit-lit’ out of all of us. I was hoping one of my crushes would be there – he’s a year younger but we went to the same alma mater, he’s well-spoken, tall, with these cerulean eyes that are alarmingly entrancing. He had been messaging me a couple of weeks earlier, even sending me heart emojis that the Pro Boners collectively freaked out over, so I had this pent up sexual tension I was hoping to explore with Mr. Heart Emoji.

Naturally, I sleep with his best friend.

Continue reading “Mr. Grilled Cheese”

Mr. Slide Into My DMs

Carrie – For the first time in a really long time, when I stepped out of the shower that morning, an overwhelming sensation of gratitude washed over me. Perhaps I had been in a particularly good mood having finished my summer courses and finally enjoying what was left of my summer. Maybe it was the reminiscent effect of some weed I’d had the night before. Whatever the case, I was appreciative of the simple things: the sweet aroma of my shampoo, the soft towel grazing against freshly cleaned skin, and the sensation of my plush memory-foam bath mat under my foot as I gingerly step out of the shower.

Then in some weird sort of memory association, I remembered the history of said bath-mat. It wasn’t particularly sentimental, being a cheap Costco purchase two years ago. However, I recall enthusiastically snapping videos of the memory foam in action to Mr. Puppy Love who often experienced my obsession with all-things-fuzzy. The mat has also gotten me through darker moments: supporting me (and friends) as we hung around the toilet the morning after a night of binge drinking and comforting me when I pathetically cried after Mr. Mindfuckboy left my house that fateful winter night.

If you haven’t read up on my saga with Mr. Mindfuckboy, I’ll spare you your life and give you the Sparks notes here: this guy’s favourite movie is The Notebook. If that wasn’t indication enough (as I was too infatuated to see at the time), it is exactly the type of tortured romance he’s looking for in his life. He wanted me to be his Allie, the girl he couldn’t be with right away, but she was his soul mate and they’d eventually end up together when the time was ‘right’. Too bad the ‘right’ time in the movie was also the most-complicated scenario/worst-timing right when she was happy and about to get married. But that was the love he wanted. Mr. Mindfuckboy made everything fifteen times more complicated than it should have been. When I gave him the opportunity to be with me, he chose to cower, ignoring my phone calls but writing me a fucking poem about how I’m better off without him. Later that evening, I sent him a ‘break-up’ text telling him to never contact me again and delete me from his life.

So lo and behold my dismay when, I kid you not, TWELVE MONTHS LATER (that’s a whole year later ladies and gents) I get hit up with a follow on Instagram from Mr. Mindfuckboy, who I will now term Mr. (Slide Into My) DM.

Continue reading “Mr. Slide Into My DMs”