Tuesday, November 01, 2005

I have to stop learning these lessons

It hit me, it’s official, I am fucking getting old. I write this Halloween night, in by 11pm, saying goodbye to Mistress Shannon and my quasi-celebrity status that wearing a corset with big boobs will bring you during the Village Halloween parade. If you see pictures floating around the internet of a big boobed dominatrix with a cheerleader, send them to me and not to my father. He would shoot you just for seeing them.

Sunday night and tonight served as a painful reminder how the days when I was 16 are long gone. Almost 6 years gone. No more partying for days without more than 4 hours of sleep (and I was drug free until college), drinking like a fish without gaining a pound, and having beautiful clear skin without the aid of Bliss facials and French face lotions.

This past weekend served to remind me that I am getting old, and the best is not yet to come, actually my hangovers are getting uglier. Especially when your boss looks at you Monday morning and asks, “Are you ok?” Oh, you mean the left over make-up under my eye with the huge bags, and the slight shake of alcohol withdrawal?! No, I am fine! The bags under the eyes from sleeping over your sister’s Sun night on the Upper Eastside because you pounded 3 vodka Red Bulls at 4am on Sunday morning. Really, contrary to popular belief, it was not the best way to celebrate the Lord’s day, as the heart palpitations, racing thoughts, and other indicators of an anxiety attack demonstrated.

Guys, I am getting old. Could my boobs me sagging too?!

However, as all nights that end with me vomiting (this time on my leather couch), there are some important lessons that I learned and want to share:

1. I need to get over British men.
Mistress Shannon goes into a bar in the LES, and hears an accent. Her ears perk up and
she walks over to the boys. Being repressed British boys who grew up on Black Adder, Benny Hill, and all other repressive spank comedies are confronted with my enormous Jew breasts (thanks Grandma!), I am the exotic. I end up pulling a boy and make-out with him. He comes home with me…And I know I need to get over my sick fantasy that some British boy will make me more culturally acceptable by rubbing his repression off on me…

2. Wearing corsets that make you look 15lbs thinner are dangerous
Talk about disappointment. What the fuck do you do, when there is a cute British boy in your apt and you have to gracefully take off the corset that makes you have the body of a porn star? Well, if you are me, you run into your bedroom that has clothes and your dirty underwear strewn all over the floor, throw on an attractive sweat shirt and loudly proclaim to your guest that you “aren’t going to fuck” him while ordering in an omelet from the diner down the block. Watching a girl lose her porn star body, stuff her face while going from sexy to sad in 30 seconds is like watching a decrepit marriage fall apart on super fast forward. We watch the Matrix, we make out…I pass out, waking to him kissing me and realizing that I am running late to go to the Breeder’s Cup (yes I had grandstand seats and hung out in the turf and field club with the owners). He gets my number, but let’s think if he is going to call me…

3. I am worse than a guy with Madonna/Whore syndrome
I want a relationship, I don’t want a relationship. I hang out in bars with boys, acting like a virginal-slut (I believe in the anti-brazillian theory, by not having one, it prevents me from becoming a whore since I am too ashamed of having outgrown pubes). However, I could meet the nicest boy, but because he got seduced by a drunken tramp, and he has shown me that he is that type of boy…I don’t want him. I don’t want to date boys who go for easy sluts. I don’t sleep with them, but how many of those other drunken tramps do? Throw in that bars are the only place where I can meet men, and…this is why I am second mate on Big Gay John’s Cruise ship.

4. Black men love a corseted dominatrix
Maybe I am too liberal, or too analytical…but doesn’t it just scream antebellum/KKK by having a white chick in a corset whip a black man for being “bad”. It just weirded the shit out of me. Also, ‘Raz’ who I met at the club, but only found out that I met you when you left me a message at 11am the next morning: please give me back my whip. Actually keep it, I don’t know what shit you did with it after I left, you seemed pretty into me spanking you. Also, as an FYI, my advice as a serial dater to you, a potential date raper: calling girls less than 6 hours later after meeting her is fucking creepy. Especially when you stole their whip and they don’t remember meeting you.

5. Vodka Red Bull needs to be Nancy Regean-ed
Just say fucking no. It fucked up my stomach so badly, today I was still experiencing heartburn, the remnants of an anxiety attack, and feeling burnt out. If I ever did massive amounts of drugs, I think this is what the come down would feel like. I almost accepted Jesus to end the pain.

And today, I have ball rehearsal. So I must don my knee length skirt, go during my lunch break for a mani, and pretend that I am socially acceptable.


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