If My Vagina Had Known What Dating Would Be Like, She Would Have Stayed Married

All my life I have had contempt for people who stay in relationships that aren’t working. Sexless marriages, or unions that involve a lot of screaming, or “business arrangements” abound (especially the latter in Malibu) and I have always been Judge Judgey McJudgerson about it. “Why would people stay married?” my ex-husband and I would ask each other, as we frolicked through the streets of New York City, traveled through Europe and then settled in various beach-side suburbs of LA. We were insufferable.

“The dining dead,” we would smirk, as yet another couple sat across from each other with nothing to share. We never stopped having endless things to talk about and laugh about, before and during marriage. One night at the trendy West Hollywood eatery Jones we were all over each other, as usual, when my then-husband spied a colleague across the room, which is not an easy feat at Jones as the lighting is low. The guy didn’t approach us, but the next time my ex-husband heard from him, he mentioned to the guy that we had seen him.

“I thought you were married, man,” the dude had said with a mixture of judgment and envy.

“Yes, that was my wife,” replied my bewildered ex.

Apparently we looked so happy, sexy and intimate, that the man decided that my ex could only have been having an affair.

And we were. For at least twelve of fourteen years, we worshipped each other, and people were alternately sickened and inspired. He fixed my daddy issues. I satisfied his lifelong fascination with redheads and “foreign women.”

We met when I was 23 and he was 37, and I never “dated” before that. I slept with people and then if we liked each other, we became boyfriend and girlfriend. There was some drama and A LOT of heartbreak, and I did get a sense when I met my ex that he would be rescuing me from all of that. I just didn’t know I was going to end up seeing dating in the 90’s as the “good old days.” Before texting, and Tinder and kids, there was only chemistry and “Your place or mine?” I never in a million light years imagined I would be meeting men in the same place I get my cat videos. Though not on the same site. That would be weird. (Although maybe that could be an app—Boyfriends And Cat Videos—call me Venture Capitalists, let’s deal.)

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I’m Taking A Hiatus From Fucking (Or A Fucking Hiatus)

Some time ago I woke up and realized I was done with casual sex, if there even is such a thing. Some time after that, I had a little more of it. While those experiences were sufficiently juicy, this time I knew I was done for good. In the last week, I finally bit the virtual bullet and started dating on an actual site and despite the temptation of hooking up with this gentleman… I’m sorry, sir, but I am no longer DTF.

I know this is confusing as I have been such a champion for sex-positive blah blah blah, and I still am! I want everyone on earth to be having earth shatteringly good sex (less wars, more babies) and wish women especially a magical cure for whatever it is that stops them from ascending the orgasmacoaster, I just don’t need to personally participate right now. Or not until I really get to know someone- like their brain and their heart, before I even begin to go lower. Don’t worry, I haven’t found Jesus, though if you know a hot guy with long hair and sandals you should definitely send him my way. Just not if he lives in Topanga Canyon and has a “spirit name.”

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The 10 Worst Things About Being A Separated (Co-parenting) Mom

1. You miss them when they’re with the other parent, but dread having them back, because when you do, you will be doing it ALONE (alone, alone, alone…)
2. No one to back you up when you’re disciplining them, if you have two children you’re outnumbered.
3. You can’t enjoy them because you’re too busy with the minutiae of housework (I need a wife.)
4. When the kids say, “I miss daddy! Where’s daddy?” as if that’s your fucking problem anymore.
5. I’m more likely to get hit by lightning than find a hot, smart, emotionally available, funny guy I’m attracted to, who also wants to co-parent my kids.

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I Almost Called CPS On Myself

CPS stands for Child Protective Services, for those of you who don’t know, and represents the goodly authority that monitors whether children are being abused, promptly removing them from the homestead if abuse has taken place. Although after seventy-two hours ALONE with my kids on Labor Day weekend, I needed Parental Protective Services, if there were such a thing. Halfway through the weekend, as they destroyed everything I have ever held dear with their incessant eating, complaining, screaming, fighting, rearranging, mess-making, throwing shit and general ingratitude, I started to wonder how I was going to get this waking nightmare to end. As a white woman living in Malibu, what do I have to do to get my kids taken away from me?

It started on Friday night at the Malibu chili cook-off, a so-called “fun” event, where children go on legitimately dangerous carnival rides (how safe can something be that came in pieces on the back of a truck and was assembled in half an hour?) and parents walk around the dusty environs between rides shelling out thirteen dollars for a sausage in soggy bread. Friday night is ‘locals’ night, though they don’t check ID or anything, so probably not everyone there is from Malibu (one day soon we shall all be micro-chipped so we don’t have to deal with the hoi polloi…) While it was great to see a thousand people I knew in one setting, it was also just a tad overwhelming. As the screams filled the air, and the dusk turned into night, my good friend turned to me and said, “Do you ever feel like there’s going to be a murder?”

Why yes, yes I do.

Sure the event was fun, for the kids on the rides, and the adults congregating in the wine tent. But I don’t drink, so I had to make do with the “whine” tent. One of my kids approached me crying because he hadn’t been able to find me for a half hour. He was with his friends. He was supposed to be having fun. I actually got a second to catch up with an old friend. “LEAVE ME ALONE,” I wanted to yell at him, but instead made do with emptying out wood chips from the inside of my shoe. Then I bought him a four-dollar soft serve ice cream cone, tricking a friend into watching them for a minute so I could duck behind a truck selling hemp clothing to vape some nicotine, and ponder the utter uselessness of humanity in general and carnivals in particular. On the way home, a hundred bucks lighter and with the sights and sounds of revelry still playing havoc with my synapses, the other kid chimed in with the complaint, “My favorite ride from last year is gone.”

“So is mine,” I thought, but instead feigned empathy. “Oh, I’m sorry honey.”

There’s going to be a murder. Continue reading

The Perils Of Being Hot

This is probably the most risky thing I will ever write. And I have written about masturbating daily, anal sex, BDSM, my fantasies about paraplegics, going to sex clubs, and sport-fucking women, black men and twenty-year-old boys. And yet, I feel I am about to write the most dangerous, hateworthy and trollable words ever expressed on the Internet, so taboo that when other women write them, they feel a need to do it anonymously. So here it is, please brace yourselves because this is earth shattering; I KNOW I’M ATTRACTIVE.

Even as I have aged and I have some lines and wrinkles, and pockets of fat, and some other nasty shit that happens as you get older and children ruin both your life and your looks, I know I’m generally good looking (#humblebrag.) And this is… not an advantage exactly, but a “thing.” It’s a thing because of the way men respond, and it’s a thing because sometimes women act kind of bitchy and competitive even though I don’t want their basic husbands, but usually it is simply a background condition I try to be grateful for, at least one upside to a life I sometimes don’t want.

Truthfully I get intimidated by women and men who are “more attractive” than I am, especially because this is Los Angeles, and there are usually way, way more attractive people than you in any setting, especially when you live in Malibu, no matter who you are. Megan Fox probably went to a party recently and saw a younger, hotter Megan Fox. When I was in my twenties and believed I was a “ten” I had an acting agent tell me I was only a nine and a half. The fact that at the time I thought this was only tells you the extent to which youth is wasted on the young. I don’t even want to think about what my rating is now, but that doesn’t mean I don’t know yours.

There are guys who I think are BEYOND A 10 who don’t find me attractive. They might hit it if they’re single and horny, but they’re not taking me to breakfast, let alone committing to anything. That hurts, but it’s just an ego hurt, and I get over it. Someone loved me once, and my looks were part of that love, and I was madly attracted to him too for well over a decade, and the next someone I meet needs to be someone I am attracted to, and get this: some guys I think are complete dickheads, but I will fuck them anyway just because they are physically attractive and I can (#confusing #WomensLib #FuckAHotGuyForALS.)

And yet… I seem to have the kind of looks that are not intimidating enough to unattractive men. You know the gorgeous blonde sitting in the corner, hard up for dates because men are too afraid to ask her out? Yeah, that’s not me. I have always been the antithesis to that, and maybe it means I am getting less attractive, but there is an increasing phenomena of how many inappropriate guys will TAKE A SHOT. I have had short, hairy Armenian overnight gas station attendants, obese men, unemployed old guys with no home and no car make overtures at me and then seem genuinely surprised when I am not interested. Not to mention the ones that think they have a shot at fucking me because I write about sex. That’s me, the slutty Florence Nightingale, just indiscriminately doling out fucks to all those poor souls who need them the most… Continue reading

My Kids Are Fucking Amazing

Some time ago, a friend of mine, was talking about how kids today are so entitled and have no manners. This particular friend of mine is a tattooed badass who is also a Doula, so you could say I think of her as being on the liberal side. Once she warms into some moral outrage, there’s no stopping her.

“I saw these kids at…” she named a local restaurant, “And I couldn’t believe how they were behaving. They were eating with their hands, staring at the game on TV, totally ignoring the server, just being awful. And the dad, he was so checked out, he wasn’t even picking up on their manners, all I could think was, ‘Where is the mom?’ But I didn’t say anything, I almost did, but I didn’t. They were like twins these kids, very good-looking, both really long hair, like little surfers. The older one, was a little shorter and he was more sensitive, and the younger one, he knew a lot about the game, but he was bigger than his brother and just dominating everything, screaming at the screen every time there was a play…”

I’m not sure the moment at which it became clear to me that this woman was talking about my children. Perhaps the realization dawned slowly, or maybe I figured it out really early, and went into a dissociative state. Either way, at a certain point I knew for certain that this was the picture my children were presenting in this small town of Malibu, at least when they were alone with their dad or, as I like to refer to him “Drunk Uncle.” I also realized that I was going to have to tell her.

“Um, those are my kids. And that’s my ex.,” I eventually said, bemused, once she’d finished ranting. She has an incredible ability to note details, and had amassed so much knowledge about my spawn just from watching them for half an hour, I had to also add that I was impressed!

“Oh my gosh,” this is a woman who swears more than a sailor (all the sailors I’ve met have actually been very yes, ma’am, no ma’am polite) but she actually blushed. “I’m so sorry. I feel awful. I mean, they were good kids, I could tell they were good kids, but there was just something about the dad where he was…”

“Oh you mean ‘Diseyland Dad’?” I asked wryly. I pull out wry when my feelings are hurt. “I can’t wait to tell him about this…”

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My Life is FUBR

At some point in every day, usually when I first wake up, I will have the thought that I have irrevocably fucked up my life. In fact, to call it a thought is like calling a Great White Shark a fish—factually correct but deceiving. Us writers tend to be obsessed with calling things what they are, really burrowing in and putting words to things other people can’t. At that point we don’t even care if other people can’t express things, it becomes a matter of urgency to name what we want to name at any cost. And thus, I inadequately call what inhabits my mind a “thought,” but it is really more like a shark. A ferocious killing machine, intent on taking a chunk out of both my day and my life, content only when it tastes blood. Perhaps that is why I rarely use the phrase, “Good morning.”

I live in my ex-husband’s garage. Technically, I suppose I co-own the garage, or the bank co-owns it, nevertheless I have chosen, for reasons becoming increasingly unclear, to stay in this place, though it has no bathroom and renders me completely dependent on my ex. Okay the reasons are not that unclear—I do not have the means to support myself, I am incapable of figuring out how to support myself with my art, and getting a ten dollar an hour job so that I can pay someone else to raise my kids does not make any sense. I have failed in such an unspectacular fashion that I am woefully unqualified for decent employment, so I continue in this purgatory, this hell’s waiting room on a hill, trapped as I was when married, by a golden cage.

I expect by now you are crying large salty tears for the attractive woman, lying in her home in Malibu, unable to leave the house and go into the sunshine. (Go trolls!) I lie in bed in my pajamas for days, or until literally the last second before I have to go pick up my children, paralyzed by failure. Even as I know that I am lucky to have a bed, and pajamas, and a shower (if I manage to take one) that gratitude does not eradicate the doom in my brain, any more than you could rid yourself of a shark by spraying it with RAID. Continue reading