by Laurelin

I remember that I used to go to his bar after we had broken up. I had always gone there, why should I change anything just because my life as I knew it was over? Besides, I was fine. I would do my hair differently, a different style, parted to another side. And I’d wear a little black dress because I was on my way to a fancy event that once he would have also been invited to. I was okay, and he would see that.

I wasn’t okay, I was drunk. Lines blurred and people stared, and when I fell backwards off my barstool he came running to help me up. I screamed that I didn’t need his help anymore, that I was fine. Our friends shook their heads and saw me home, and I knew that I was far from fine. That night would replay a couple of times a week; a different dress, the same sad looks. And always I would cry when I thought no one was looking, even though everyone was. He must have been horrified.

Three years later, I watch him walk drunk into my bar regularly. He has his head held high, but I can always tell that something is wrong.

After the scene unfolded for the first time, I leant over to one of our friends and said, “This is what it was like all those years ago when I used to go into his bar, isn’t it?” Our friend nodded his head, and I felt impossibly sad.

I would rather have nights of my own endless heartbreak than know I’m causing someone else to ache like that. I don’t know what’s happening, and I am powerless to stop any of it. I have my own problems and having front row seats to his makes me feel guilty for being annoyed, but I am.

“I just miss you,” he says, reaching for me. I turn away, just out of his reach and I want to cry, but I don’t. Not until I was telling someone else the story later did my eyes fill with tears. “You’re happy now,” he had slurred and I wanted so badly to shake him and tell him that I was anything but happy; I was still always being let down, the only constant in my life was our sad city bar scene. But he didn’t need to know that. If he thought I was happy and that made him sad, it wasn’t my place to let him know that I really did want to be rescued – just not by him anymore.

It’s raining outside today, and I can’t bring myself to get out of bed. I don’t feel like drinking, I don’t feel like talking, texting, writing, eating. I feel sad, alone, heartbroken. I have to be at the bar in one hour. As shitty as I feel I know, I’ll get up, I’ll add some color to my pale cheeks and I’ll fake a smile, and while some people will know, others won’t. I’ll be okay. Maybe he’ll call and maybe he won’t, and no matter which “he” it is, I shouldn’t answer the phone, because nothing is right.

I have to be at the bar in one hour, and the mere thought of lifting my face off this pillow is enough to make me turn to ashes.

[..]

by SG’s Team Agony feat. Leandra

Let us answer life’s questions – because great advice is even better when it comes from SuicideGirls.

Q. Basically my boyfriend never wants to have sex and it confuses me. I wear sexy outfits, corsets, thongs, nothing but a skirt, fish nets stockings, but nothing works. I rub on him, even give him head, but he still doesn’t want to have sex with me. I don’t know what to do!!! Any tricks you could teach me?

A: Firstly, you need to know it’s NOT you. Wearing sexy outfits, lingerie etc., will only do so much. I am sure you look amazing!

It sounds like you have a real problem in the relationship here, I don’t think trying any tricks will help. How long has he been this way? Has he always been less sexual than you? Sometimes guys just are not sexual, despite the stereotype.

The first thing I think you should do is confront your boyfriend on this issue, but be kind and be gentle, this is a sensitive subject. I know this is frustrating and can do serious damage to your confidence and self esteem, but please try not to take it personally and please don’t think you’re not hot enough and can’t “do it” for him.

He should be willing to go to a doctor and have a few tests done, he may have a medical problem. He may have low testosterone, (you might want to Google that and see if he has other symptoms). He may have erectile dysfunction, which he can get pills for (Viagra and others). There may be a lack of blood flow to his penis, etc. It’s important to rule any physical factors out for his health.

Once you have ruled out anything physical, author possible causes could be emotional or mental. Has there been a change in the relationship or a change in his life? Could he be stressed, tired or overworked? Are you guys okay besides this sex problem? It may help him to talk to a therapist. You guys could even consider going to couples counseling together.

Basically, this doesn’t usually happen for no reason. Sure, some men and woman are just not very sexual, but there is usually a reason beyond that, especially if it hasn’t always been this way. You need to work together to get to the bottom of it, and you need to be supportive as I’m sure this is going to be a little embarrassing for him.

If he is not willing to seek any kind of help, you need to decide if you will be happy spending the rest of your life in a sexless relationship. Personally, I wouldn’t be so hurt that my boyfriend wasn’t having sex with me, I would be much more hurt if he wasn’t willing to try and do something about it.

Good luck!!!

Leandra
xXx

Got Problems? Let SuicideGirls’ team of Agony Aunts provide solutions. Email questions to: gotproblems@suicidegirls.com

by Cameron Frye

For those of you who haven’t heard the news, I’ve lost 270+lbs. Since losing the weight, I’ve entered the dating world and it’s been….nice? Who am I kidding, it sucks. But I can’t be anti-social Suzy for the rest of my life and I can’t get drunk and hope for the best anymore. So I have to put some effort into finding someone and conning some unlucky bastard into loving me.

It was so much easier when I drank and it was always a surprise. I use to equate it with getting a goodie bag after a birthday party. The majority of the stuff was horse shit, but occasionally you’d find one gem to keep you occupied for a while. You have to admit, there’s no better feeling than waking up in the morning and finding out from your friends or from the guy that’s sleeping next to you what you did the night before and following it up with an awkward doctor’s visit filled with judgment on Monday. How I didn’t get herpes is still beyond me. But that’s not why we’re here!

We are here to read about my entrance into the dating world and what I’m doing to make it more enjoyable.

So I am going on a lot of blind dates or first dates or torture sessions (whatever you want to call them) and they’re painful. It’s filled with awkward conversations and judgment. I just assume they’re thinking the worst of me (I admit I’m doing the same to them) and I can also assume that the friends who are setting me up, think very little of me or they’re getting back at me for something fucked up I did in the past. Listen, it’s not my fault he lingered a little too long after that kiss and, really, you’re the only one to blame. You gave us permission to hook you up.

Anyways, after accepting another date from a bad karma charmer, I’ve been scheduling a second “date” for later in the evening. Ok, it’s not really a date. It’s just my version of the nightcap and, since I can’t drink right now or indulge in my favorite desserts without getting sick and vomiting all over the place, I need something to take the edge off.

So, I’ve been meeting up with one of my many hook ups from Christmas’ past and having sex. The way I see it, they’re performing a service and if anything, the lucky fella I really want to be with will thank them in the end or at least that’s what I’m telling myself this week.

Since losing the weight equivalent of a defensive lineman for the New England Patriots, I’m not 100% comfy with my appearance out of clothes. Granted, that’s normal and that’s why God created the dark – but I still think the more ‘practice’ I have being naked with a guy, the better. Right now my body looks like its melting and that’s not exactly a big selling point with guys out there. I know, I know, it’s more than looks. But that’s bullshit. If it was, I would have been beating them off with a stick when I weighed 448 and had the slight resemblance of Mama June on ‘Here Comes Honey Boo Boo’ – just sans neck crust. *shudders*

I doubled up on the ‘dates’ this weekend. The first one was with ‘a really nice guy’ that worked with my friend’s husband. Attractive, good job, well dressed – just nothing there. He had the personality of stomach cancer and was more into talking to his reflection in the mirror than me. Translation? He was a less witty Patrick Bateman.

Now I fully admit to checking myself out in the mirror when no one is looking, but he was looking at himself the entire time. I saw him winking at himself in the mirror once or he had a thing for the 60 year old he saw sitting behind us. I won’t lie; she was a looker…in 1954.

For almost two hours I sat there listening to him ramble on about Mitt Romney, soccer and his new BMW. He was also one of those guys who needs to know everything about what he was going to eat. I care about animals, I really do. But I don’t need to know the life story of the chicken that’s being added to my salad. I’d rather assume, the chicken gave his life for a noble cause – like to earn money, so he could feed his starving children and the world is a better place for it. OMMMMM *ding* Namaste. After hearing the chicken life story, I contemplated stabbing myself with my salad fork.

Instead of ruining a perfectly good outfit or dealing with a trip to the hospital, I decided to text Round 2 and asked if he wanted company earlier than we had planned. When he responded with a “yes,” I couldn’t have been happier. Well, that’s not true. I was happier than a pig in shit when Round 1 asked for the check. When he wasn’t looking, I might have greased the waiter and said there’s more if he can get me out of there in less than 10 minutes. It worked.

Boring Bateman got a little grabby on the way out. Evidently, he thought he won me over or I wasn’t picky. While I was trying everything in my power to get away, he got blinded by his reflection in the mirror and I was able to hop in the first available cab.

I guess, in a way, I should be honored. I mean, he didn’t drink much and I did look good. I’m going to assume that’s what made him a little rapey. Two points for the kid.

I texted round 2 and said I was on my way. I’m going to be honest, I was nervous. It’s like I said before, it was much easier when I drank. Everything is. Ok, maybe not driving, raising a child or threading a needle, but hooking up was. When I was drunk, the real me came out. I wasn’t the insecure ass that I usually am. I just didn’t care. I was more concerned with having fun and not getting pregnant or worse.

But the bucket of fun was forced to be sober and now we’re forced to dazzle people with the personality we really have, which in itself is a horrible idea. Deep down inside, I’m a good person – but I’m kind of an asshole. I laugh at awful things and I make awful jokes. I’m not exactly the girl you bring home to mom. That is, unless your mom loves Louis C.K. (Talking of which, can someone put in good word with him for me? Listen, I used to be fat – I can suck a mean dick. Feel free to pass this info on to him).

I met Round 2 at his place. Round 2 lives near one of my favorite bakeries and a place I’d stop off at if I had an exceptionally bad day. There was a sad moment when I wondered if I could break in, grab a cupcake, not get caught and still make it up stairs for cock. I tamed the Super Sugar Force and headed on up to his apartment.

It’s weird, I was far more comfortable walking into his apartment and jumping into sex, than I was sitting down and having a peaceful dinner and getting to know someone. Being sexually confident and going for what I want in the bedroom is cakewalk or fart. (BTW can we please stop farting on cakes? You’re wasting a perfectly delicious treat.), It’s much easier than letting down the walls and letting someone in. I swear, I didn’t get that from any self-help nonsense. I came up with that embarrassing piece of verbal vomit myself.

I know why being sexually aggressive is easier for me, I had to do that most of my life. If I wanted something, I had to go get it myself. If I wanted someone, I had to do everything in my power to make them want me. But controlling that side is hard. I use to pick some awful men (i.e. married men or men already involved) to keep in my fat stable and I’d like to think I’m better than that. I just need to start believing it. I really need to stop talking to my mom when she’s watching her favorite TV shrink of the moment.

Until that happens, I’m going to keep on having fun the only way I know how. At least I know I’ll go to bed with a smile on my face and my vibrator batteries live for another day.

Since losing weight, Cameron Frye has gone from writing about sports to writing about sex. You can follow/stalk her on Twitter or read her ramblings on DigBoston.com/. If you know Louis C.K. – put in a good word for her. Also, she’s now accepting tattoo artist recommendations in the Boston area.

by SG’s Team Agony feat. Aadie

Let us answer life’s questions – because great advice is even better when it comes from SuicideGirls.

Q. I’ve been married for two years and my wife told me she wants to separate. It’s been three months and everything I do or see reminds me of her. I want to move away but I’m on probation and can’t. I’ve tried dating other women but every time I go on a date all I can focus on is how it’s not the same as with my wife. She’s already moved on and I see no hope of us getting back together. What should I do?

A: You need to focus on you. You have devoted two years to ‘us’ and she left. For that I have empathy for you, but now it’s seriously all about you.

Going on the odd date here and there is healthy but don’t over do it. I think you need to find yourself again in the aftermath of a relationship that very much defined you. It’s sad when people separate but sometimes that’s just the way it is.

Now it’s time to reintroduce yourself to yourself, get new hobbies, go to new bars, join a new gym, get a new hair style even. Find new friends, and also reconnect with old ones who perhaps fell by the wayside as you put more energy into the relationship.

For the moment, instead of looking to replace one relationship with another, build up your social circle and social life, so you have plenty of support and distractions. This will also help you when you are ready to find love again, to perhaps find it in a more organic and less overwhelming way through friends and friends of friends.

It’s going to be difficult, but you’re worth more then you know. Take a deep breath and hold your head up high. Your new life is beginning. You can only move forwards from here.

Aadie
xoxo

Got Problems? Let SuicideGirls’ team of Agony Aunts provide solutions. Email questions to: gotproblems@suicidegirls.com

by M. J. Johnson

I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately, to front only the essential facts of life, and see if I could not learn what it had to teach, and not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived. I did not wish to live what was not life, living is so dear; nor did I wish to practice resignation, unless it was quite necessary. I wanted to live deep and suck out all the marrow of life, to live so sturdily and Spartan-like as to put to rout all that was not life, to cut a broad swath and shave close, to drive life into a corner, and reduce it to its lowest terms, and, if it proved to be mean, why then to get the whole and genuine meanness of it, and publish its meanness to the world; or if it were sublime, to know it by experience, and be able to give a true account of it in my next excursion. For most men, it appears to me, are in a strange uncertainty about it, whether it is of the devil or of God, and have somewhat hastily concluded that it is the chief end of man here to “glorify God and enjoy him forever.”

– excerpt from Walden: Life in the Woods by Henry David Thoreau

I went into the park because I wished to read my book. What could be better than spending a warm afternoon with my back to a tree, a good book in hand, a cup of coffee next to me, cool grass and dirt under my butt? Well, apparently, I’m the only one who was thinking that way.

I recently moved to Iowa City; it’s a funky little college town, sort of a mini-Portland. On one side of town is this HUGE city park (cleverly called “City Park”), which is roughly the same size as the village where I grew up. There are pavilions and playgrounds, ball-diamonds and soccer pitches, and even a little train kids can ride. And the place was PACKED! Every pavilion had a family reunion, and the playgrounds were humming with giggles and screams. The walking trails were full of serious runners and leisurely walkers. There were even people using canoes to annoy the ducks.

But only I was on the grass. There weren’t any signs telling people to stay off the grass; in fact, there were benches and grills scattered all around under the trees. There just weren’t any people off the paths.

Hundreds of people, gathered in this tamed forest, and only I walked on the grass. Only I sat under a tree. Only I dared to leave the concrete or wood-chips.

Carl Jung talks about the Collective Unconscious, a sort of racial memory (where the “race” in question is “human”), which forms our psyche and explains why people in different cultures have similar stories and fears. Based on fairy tales and stories, forests are a place of human fear. Hansel and Gretel? Little Red Riding Hood? Any knightly quest, all have scary things hidden in the wild places. Our ancestors learned to fear the woods because all those trees give predators a good place to hide.

Has this translated into a fear of leaving the concrete path? Are we all so afraid of the wild that we don’t want to even walk on the grass? When I was teaching, I had to laugh at students who went far, far out of their way to get from class to class, simply because that’s where the sidewalk went.

Do we quaver at the feel of uneven ground under our feet? Does the thought of getting our shoes dirty terrify us? Are grass-stains scary? Do we think a mountain lion is lurking in the trees over our heads? Do we still fear the witch in the woods?

Or is it something else? This park did not have “keep off the grass” signs, but many do. People spend millions of dollars every year to create lawns to see but not walk upon. Shoe companies create specific shoes for running on roads, dirt paths, or sidewalks, but the human foot is designed to run on grass, to step where no one else has stepped.

When Thoreau went into the woods, he wanted to wake up knowing that he was surrounded by nothing but nature. He reveled in squirrels who invaded his home, and spent hours just studying a war between black and red ants (scholars like to debate whether he really saw the ant war or not). He spent chapters describing the quiet.

When was the last time things around you were really quiet? I open my windows at night and listen to people in the parking lot, cars on the road, fire engines, shouts, motorcycles, and some annoying brat with a whistle. We buy white-noise machines to play static so we can sleep. We have televisions and radios and ipods playing at all times, and claim its because we “live for music.”

Humans have never been all that comfortable in the wild; we’re fragile when compared to lions and tigers and bears (oh my!), so we build caves (houses) and cut down the trees, then complain that all the wild places are disappearing.

We’re supposed to be a part of nature, not separated from it. So, there is no reason to walk on the sidewalk.

Except for the bears.

M. J. Johnson is the professional name of Coyotemike. He has written a moderately bad e-book called The Bastards Club and is working on getting more serious work published.

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My Size Cannot Define Me

by Laurelin

He looked just like he did on TV. Face, smooth and smiling, muscles pressing up against his huge T-shirt and his hat pulled down just enough so that I could still see his eyes. I had started to get up to refill my wine glass, but when I saw him I sunk back down, the air rushing from my lungs as though someone had just squeezed the life out of me. I could feel a flush traveling up my body and suddenly my face was burning, and I turned away so he wouldn’t see me.

I rarely meet celebrities. Like every other girl in the world I have dreamt what it would have been like to meet Leonardo DiCaprio, staying calm and collected so that he would shake my hand and look me in the eye. You imagine that if they could just meet you, you would be best friends, they might even fall in love with you, and everything would be right in the world. But that’s just in dreams. You will never meet Brad Pitt or Ben Affleck, and they will most certainly not fall in love with you. You are just you after all, a regular girl, who dates regular guys. You are common, and they are special.

He took his time walking around the room, signing autographs and taking pictures with everyone from old ladies to screaming teens to little kids. Still, I sat. I wonder what I’ll say when it’s my turn, would he remember me from a brief Twitter message I sent that he replied to? Will he think I’m crazy if I bring it up? He moves closer and as he approached I could finally stand and I shook my head, clearing the clouds. He is just a man after all.

I reached out my hand to find his and from somewhere in me comes a voice, and I said, “Hi, I’m Laurelin.” He smiled and inside I melted, but outside I must have seemed okay because he started asking me questions, then we laughed and he said that he did remember me from a year ago on Twitter. I made a snarky remark about his clothing and he thought I was funny. I sat back down in my seat and I watched him continue to sign autographs. I clutched the stem of my wine glass and I looked at our photo and I smiled. I’m taller than him.

When I looked up he was sitting next to me.

“Do you have a ticket for tonight?” he asked.

“Yes,” I stammered, fumbling around for it. He must want to sign it; he signed everyone else’s. I found it and he took it, smoothly scribbling something on the back and pressing it into my palm. I looked down and I see a phone number. My blood ran cold and hot at the same time, and I thought, “Say something clever…”

“Can I drunk dial you later?” I asked, smirking.

“Absolutely,” he said, and I die. The girls around me had their jaws on the floor, and as he left he smiled at me and waved. We started texting almost immediately, stopping only because the arena was growing dark and it was time for him to come out.

I think of how all summer I have had no one, nothing but an empty bed and a cat, and now, with the coming fall, the promise of something new. All of a sudden, out of the blue, the promise of something totally just… fun. I slid my phone into my pocket and headed to my seat to watch him. The place is packed, everyone screaming his name, and my phone buzzed one last time.

“Nice to meet you,” he said. “I would love to see you again.”

I felt sick. I went home that night alone, and I crawled in bed with someone else.

“How was tonight?” my real life non-celebrity boy asks. I buried my face in his neck and hugged as tight as I could.

“It was fine,” I said, “really fun.”

We fell asleep, and I knew I was right where I belonged.

[..]

by Steven Whitney

When traveling throughout the world, one learns a lot about the Dream of America by talking with whomever one meets along the way – taxi drivers, shopkeepers, writers and artists, students, and ordinary men and women with or without agendas of their own…almost anyone except the country’s elite and politicians.

Berlin, 1996

In the mid-80s, Berlin was a shadowed city within a divided nation, split into East and West by a concrete barricade that cut off all unauthorized passage between the two sectors. Actually two barriers about 50 yards apart, with manned guard towers overlooking what became known as “the death strip” in-between, the Berlin Wall put a punishing halt to the mass defections from the Eastern Bloc and became a global symbol of entrapment and oppression.

Standing at Checkpoint Charlie, looking from the American zone to the Soviet sector, drab residential buildings and factories filled the bleak landscape. Soviet tanks and the Stasi – arguably the most intrusive and repressive secret police of its time – prowled the streets under dark clouds spewed forth by gigantic industrial smokestacks, adding to an almost palpable sense of imprisonment.

Ten years later, with both the Wall and the USSR antiquities of a vanquished era, the united Berlin was a bustling metropolis determined to become one of the greatest and most sophisticated cities in the world. No expense was spared, no architectural or cultural plan was too extravagant. Giant cranes dotted the landscape like oil rigs on the west Texas plain. Berlin had become a modern “boom town.”

Yet several hundred miles south, the Bosnian conflict had become a sordid battleground of “ethnic cleansing.” Refugees from both sides fled north, and the Germans – a people imprisoned within their own walls for decades – took them in.

I was in Berlin to write a television film involving the journey of two families – one Christian, one Muslim – from the corpse-littered streets of Sarajevo to the German border. These were people who had left everything behind, families that had lost brothers and sisters, husbands and wives, and even children to the hatred of racial and religious persecution. They arrived in Germany without money, water, and food, possessing only the clothes they wore.

For research, I spent two days at one of the largest camps. Fenced in on multiple acres of flat, dry farmland, the refugees lived in tents erected by the government and guarded by UN forces. They were provided with basic medical care, immigration assistance, language classes, and small daily rations of food, water, and wine. And each day, more and more refugees arrived – hungry, sick, and weak from their desperate flights – until the camp resembled an overcrowded ghetto.

By the time I visited, literally tens of thousands or people were cramped into this makeshift Tent City. Yet I heard few complaints. Even fewer fights broke out. Bitterness and recrimination had for the most part evaporated in this netherworld of safe harbor. They were no longer Muslims and Christians torn apart by separate and warring ideologies, but survivors entwined by the brutal migration north.

I went from tent to tent, accompanied by translators. At each, I was invited inside and offered food and drink so I could more comfortably listen to the stories they wanted the world to hear. Their last portion of meat or wine, whatever they had left, was tendered. A few families had been in residence long enough to make Bosnian moonshine…and that was offered as well.

It struck me that in the aftermath of unimaginable horror, these people offered me everything they had left in the world. I was their guest and all their hardships would not deter them from being gracious hosts. Never before nor since has anyone ever offered me everything he or she had. It speaks to the overwhelming generosity of the impoverished and their inherent goodness.

We talked about their journeys, their hopes, and their imagined futures. When I asked each of them the key to their ongoing survival in the face of such devastating loss, they all replied with the same sentiment: “You must let go of hatred and forgive your enemies.”

They had many different questions about my own homeland, but the one thing they all wanted to know was this: did we truly practice religious freedom here?

I recited to them our First Amendment and it perfectly fulfilled their dream of America – a land where people of all religions are free to practice their beliefs without fear of bloodshed and discrimination…a nation where they could worship whatever they held sacred both in peace and in harmony with others.

I did not tell them that many people wanted to officially sanction the United States as a Christian Nation, just like the warlords in Bosnia sought to make that country either a Christian or Muslim nation. Some things are better left unsaid for dreams to soar undisturbed.

South Africa, 2001

I was reminded of the Bosnian camp when I flew to a country that for most of my life had been held in the strangling grip of apartheid, a rogue nation in which the majority was brutally held under the cruel thumb of a racist minority.

When the changeover finally occurred, most people throughout the world expected rivers of blood to flow in the streets – payback for a pitiless regime of torture, murder, and almost unimaginable repression. But for the country to succeed, national and racial unity was mandatory, so outside of a few isolated incidents, calmer heads prevailed and violence never went viral.

In the new South Africa, Nelson Mandela and Bishop Desmond Tutu led their people – black and white – to a peaceful aftermath of a startling and long overdue revolution by putting into play the transformative power of forgiveness. They even convened “Forgiveness Trials” under the newly created Truth and Reconciliation Commission in which victims and perpetrators alike bore witness to gross violations of human rights and amnesty was granted in cases of true repentance.

Was justice done?

Justice is always somewhat immeasurable. But a just country was born and sustained that otherwise would have faltered – old resentments and hatreds were put to the side and the awful cloak of “victimization” was avoided. Once again, harmony was achieved through simple and multiple acts of forgiveness.

And, too, wherever I went – from Johannesburg to Cape Town – both white and black South Africans talked openly about the benefits accrued by the national policy of forgiveness.

In times like ours, when senseless and widespread violence can be sparked at a moment’s notice over what seems to many the most trivial of slights, as happened last week, it’s important for those of all religions, cultures, and nationalities to appreciate the potential of forgiveness in bridging an oft times considerable communication gap to saner and more human understanding.

Sometimes, it is true – what is invisible to the eye is essential to the heart…and to a better life for the global community.

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America: Forget it, Jake. It’s Chinatown.
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