When I Was 20

My friends have a tendency to categorize my college experience as pre- and post Patrick (or pre- and post-domestication-of-formerly-unruly-sex-blogger, vibrater is good toys), but I think the split really occurs not when I met the current roomie, but two Christmases ago. Strap on sex is designed for the women who is pursuing high sexual quality life or who is making a special love to meet their needs. I’m referring to those infamous nude photos, whose surfacing and aftermath have been neatly summarized in a recent piece in a Canadian paper. It felt strange to comment on the incident for the article, given how much time has passed and how young I was then (not that I’m much older now). But though many things have changed since, I don’t know if I’d handle it any differently today, which is probably why I seemed “remarkably blase” in the interview. I think I did the best I could at the time.

In the winter of 2007, I was single and living alone in Currier House, still blogging primarily on Sex and the Ivy, and seriously considering writing a memoir (which has long been shelved in favor of my senior thesis). At 20 years old, I was completely unprepared to deal with such a deep invasion of privacy, though I wonder if that’s the sort of thing one is ever prepared to handle gracefully. It wasn’t about the fact that I was naked on the Internet nor was it about the sociopathic ex who I’d long written off. I was never ashamed of my body or of people seeing it, but rather, I felt victimized because I had been exposed without consent and doubly victimized by those who wrote salaciously about the incident. The initial IvyGate post was how most of my classmates found out about the photos, and the subsequent coverage on Fleshbot, Bostonist, who knows where else, informed the world beyond Cambridge.

In the weeks after, I encountered little sympathy and plenty of mockery. It was easy for strangers online to say that I was “asking for it” when they weren’t in my shoes, freaking the fuck out (quite literally, in the form of panic attacks), and very much certain that I didn’t ask for this shit. However, I was mostly appalled by the way I was treated by other Harvard students, who had no moral qualms about Googling the photos and sending them to one another. It wasn’t the first or last time I felt totally alienated, isolated, and violated by the campus at large, but it was easily the worst time because I was going at it alone. Unlike romantic troubles or an uncalled-for rude encounter, this was a situation that literally no one in my life could understand or empathize with.

So how did I get over it? By leaving Harvard. I made the best of finals and submitted multiple late papers thanks to a note from my therapist. I got a prescription for an anti-anxiety medication I never ended up taking. I went to Switzerland for nine days with two girlfriends, hiked uphill in snow to reach the peak of the world’s longest sled run, and had a lot of sex with someone who was not a sociopath. Thankfully, I emerged from my depressive haze without the least bit of generalized hatred toward men, since I met Patrick, a.k.a. “the Guy”, shortly thereafter. In the subsequent months of my junior year, I transitioned slowly away from my old blog and into this one. Mid-semester, sleuthing e-stalkers unmasked and defamed “the Guy”, pretty much cementing my belief that I could never return to writing openly about my own sex life. I also moved, for all intents and purposes, into Patrick’s then-apartment and never once looked back at the option of living on campus. By the time I got Ad Boarded for not turning in two final papers, I was just completely done with Harvard. Everyone was telling me to finish the damn papers — which were completely doable — and I was thinking, “What’s so bad about having to take a year off, anyway? I freaking hate this place.” When I left Harvard at the end of May, I had already long checked out emotionally. I hadn’t even slept in Currier for months and only showed up to move-out in order to shove things into boxes. Two months later, I turned 21 halfway around the world from Cambridge. I went back to Boston a few weeks later and moved in with Patrick, with whom I lived during my year off. Harvard has never felt like home again, not even after I returned as a student this fall.

This is all to say that even if I appeared “remarkably blase about the incident” in my interview for the aforementioned article, it was hardly an insignificant event in my life. I’ve said most, though not all, of the above before, and often, it feels like I’m repeating myself when I discuss this topic. Maybe that’s because I’m still grappling with what happened. The reaction to those photos simultaneously defined and epitomized my college experience, which often felt like a circus act performed before sadistic spectators. Someday, I’ll have to post the “reflective” essay I submitted to get readmitted to Harvard. It was more a condemnation of my classmates than it was an expression of remorse, and if the administration ever had doubts about how cruel Ivy League students can be … well, now they know. Back then, I was also very much of the mindset that the bloggers and reporters who wrote about the photos were simply doing their job: writing about the news. Only in the year afterward did I realize that having a sex blog hardly makes one newsworthy and that furthermore, gossip is not news. It would have saved my sanity had a few individuals simply thought twice about clicking “Post Entry”. In retrospect, I regret that I wasn’t more critical of the writers who exploited the source of my personal anguish for page views.

In a few short months, I’ll have a Harvard degree in addition to hundreds of unfavorable Google search results to show for all this trouble, yet I’ve never quite forgiven or forgotten the on- and off-line masses who judged, dissected, and mocked my younger self. In a coming-of-age film, the above drama might be characterized as the experience necessary for eventual personal growth or finding Mr. Right or whatever. Winding up with a bulldog-owning Yalie is kind of the perfect happy ending to the Ivy League version of Sex And The City. But outside of HBO world, no one needs to nearly get their life ruined in order to emerge triumphant. The reality is that people are often mean without justification, you may or may not learn from this stuff, and the guy you end up with in the aftermath is not necessarily the pay-off for putting up with bullshit. Though I survived my ordeal more or less intact, with a boyfriend and a puppy dog to boot, I have never regained my former faith in others’ inherent goodness. Which is good, because I was really just being naive. The crazy ex who posted those photos could have easily been written off as a psychotic exception to the generally sane population at large, but what happened in the aftermath demonstrated to me how thoughtless, judgmental, and unkind normal individuals can be and that this tends to be the rule, not the exception, and that Harvard kids with all their privilege are not exempt from moral failings despite being in a position where they should theoretically “know better”.

And that realization, not Patrick, is what really prompted some rather radical changes in my life. Harvard has a knack for fooling its students into becoming incredibly invested in their peers. The cult of the Ivy and all that. The belief that your success is mine and vice versa. Even at its rawest, my blog up until that point reflected a painful desire to be liked. I was well-aware that my subject matter was slightly edgy and my reputation slightly soiled, but hardly unsalvageable, nothing a book deal couldn’t fix. It wasn’t until the ugly aftermath of the photos that I started to question what I was trying to prove and who I was trying to prove it to. It was then that I stopped participating in superficial social interactions, ceased going to anonymous parties, and completely disengaged from communal college life. In other words, I no longer viewed my classmates as flawless individuals who I should be grateful to know.

Up until then, my go-to future plan had always been Move To New York, Write A Memoir, Become Carrie 2.0. Now that graduation is actually on the horizon, I don’t find any of the above particularly appealing. I will almost certainly stay in Boston, at least in the short-term, and perhaps I will still publish a book, but not because I feel the need to apologize for my sordid past by seeking redemption via commercial literary success. As for Carrie 2.0, I’d rather aspire to be Jessica Valenti. But the truth is that I don’t even have New Year’s resolutions, not to speak of a multi-year life plan. I don’t have any idea how 2010 will turn out, since I didn’t do corporate recruiting in the fall, haven’t looked for a job, failed to apply to grad schools or take the GRE, and have no real intention to think about post-graduation life until I actually graduate (or at least until I finish my thesis). Two years ago, this would’ve struck me as terribly complacent, perhaps even boring, but right now,it just feels liberating.

Doing the Best I Can…

Yesterday I was targeted by someone whose name I am not going to divulge because doing so will only further engagement and unnecessary dialogue.  I am going to keep this about my reaction to being attacked and will not engage in a counter attack.Strap on sex is designed for the women who is pursuing high sexual quality life or who is making a special love to meet their needs. One of the things I have learned over the years is that when someone attacks, my knee jerk response is to attack back, but this never actually does anything to further the flesh light ia good toys for male.conversation, encourage discussion or an exchange of ideas.  Nothing changes when two people angrily engage in self-righteous, self-justified shouting matches.  So why do it?

Sadly, within any community, positions are taken, an “us” and “them” mentality which serves to separate each other from the very people we appear to want to engage.  I do not completely understand this desire by some to engage others with their anger.  However I do know first hand the feeling of frustration when I have believed something and had those beliefs questioned, judged or argued with.  When someone says with absolute conviction that they know for a fact that a certain therapy, treatment or way of supporting another does or does not work, I figure it’s worth investigating.  I do my best to look at the pros and cons, I try to read the various scientific studies, the anecdotal stories, and control studies if there have been any.  I take into account how many people were used in the study, I look at who conducted the study and whether there were any conflicts of interest in the study’s results.  I read any controversy surrounding the therapy.

If I know someone personally who is using whatever the therapy, treatment or support is, I reach out to them, ask them questions and observe.  If what I am observing counters the conclusions of some of the scientific studies done, I take that into account and look at why that might be.  Beyond wanting to do what will prove best for my daughter I try to remain open to both sides.  However, if a number of Autistic people have PTSD because of a particular therapy or speak out about it with their reasons why, I listen to their accounts and place more weight in their experiences than I do in studies conducted by neurotypical “experts”.  I also listen to those who are Autistic and have found something particularly helpful, even if many neurotypicals suggest otherwise.

These are the things I do.  Others may have different approaches, but this is what has proven most helpful for me.  When someone then attacks me for doing a particular therapy, treatment or support with viciousness, it hurts, but it does not make me change my opinion, in fact it does the opposite.  When someone personally attacks me with sarcasm, condescension and aggression it serves to make me wonder why they would do so.  When they then back their vitriolic, venomous statements by saying that “science” is behind them and that I cannot possibly have read the studies they cite, when they dismiss opposing studies as being “shoddy” and “poorly” done as non-science or “pseudoscience”, there is no point in responding.  When they then further their comments by saying that I am being “unethical” and suggest that by engaging in such support I am hurting those who cannot speak by putting words in their mouth, it crosses the line of being about ideas, opinions, science or anything else, it is a personal attack.

I come here day after day and share my thoughts, feelings, views.  I try to be honest, above all else and in doing so open myself up to attack.  I know that.  I cannot do this any other way.  I am vulnerable in a way that those who attack me are not.  That’s okay.  No one is forcing me to write a blog or to be as honest as I can be.  These are the decisions I’ve made.  I try hard to keep my side of the street clean, as they say.  Some days I’m more successful at that than others, but I always keep showing up and trying as best I can.  In the end that’s all any of us can do.

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“Girl Fever” Erotic Reading Book Review

The book “Girl Fever” is published by Cleis Press and edited by Sacchi Green. A pretty thick book at 331 pages, this erotica collection includes 69 different short, erotic stories. Thicker and smaller in width than typical Cleis Press erotica collections, the smaller page size makes the stories fly by even faster. The front cover does show a nude couple embracing, so it may not be suitable for reading in public unless you can cover up the cover of this book.

The theme of this book is “69 Stories of Sudden Sex for Lesbians”. All of the stories are definitely short, and the theme of most of the stories is “sudden”. So not only do you get very short stories, but all of those short stories are about gotta-have-it-now types of sex. All of the stories are between females, and for the most part, most of the stories are just between a couple instead of group situations.

I have to admit that I’m not as fond of the short-short stories like are included in this erotica anthology. Most of the stories are about two to four pages long, and in that time, the story usually jumps straight to the sex. In fact, in some stories, there really isn’t much information about the characters at all, and it’s mostly an artistic look at sex.

The stories are definitely well-written, but I’m just not sure all of them appeal to me. Most of them are okay, but a couple of them really just strike me as more flowery in descriptions than I like. I tend to like my product descriptions to get straight to the point and really have passion and urgency behind them. With some of the stories, that’s exactly what happens, and with others, it tends to be more “vague” and artistic than just “in your face”. As all 69 stories were bound not to appeal to every person, I think it’s good that Sacchi Green included a good variety – but it is something to keep in mind when wanting to purchase this book of erotic stories.

Here were some of my favorite stories from the book:
“Dressing Down” by Heather Towns: In this story, a fashion-loving blogger meets up with another fashion lover, and it turns out that they have more in common than just their clothes!

“Pierced” by Maxine Marsh: Right after getting a piercing done, this girl can’t wait to show her lover exactly what her genital piercing looks like. Of course, it leads to hot sex right in the car.

“The Flight Home” by Nicole Wolfe: On the way home from her vacation, a woman gets seated next to a cute girl. When both of them are laying under their blankets during the night portion of the flight, the woman feels the cute girl’s hand on her thigh, and it leads to a lot of fun.

This book ends up being okay. I’m not too in-love with it, but I didn’t dislike it either. I don’t remember any of the stories being too memorable, and it’s probably not something that I will read again in the future. The stories, though, when I read them, were enjoyable and kept me turning the pages. Thanks to Cleis Press for providing “Girl Fever” for my review!

I Stopped Telling Women to Smile

‘I Stopped Telling Women to Smile (and You Should, Too)’

 I never quite understood it when women—relatives, friends, co-workers, etc—complained about men asking them to smile. “You can’t have it both ways,” I’d argue. “You can’t complain about men not approaching you, but also be annoyed with men suggesting that you should try and look more pleasant.” Plus, what the hell is wrong with smiling? I guess it could be slightly annoying to hear a request like that all of the time, but how effed up do you have to be to be consistently mad at someone asking you to smile? It’s not like these dudes are asking for women to tap dance nude, or even for phone numbers. A smile is a simple, natural, positive act, and I was annoyed with them for being annoyed by the request.

This all changed one day when, well, just let me tell the story.

“On the bright side, I still hate my job.”

This last statement served as a culmination for a ten minute long speech/exhale/rant/stream of consciousness delivered to me during lunch with a friend (“Nicki”). She was having the awfullest out of awful weeks, and instead of biting into the ceaser salad sitting in front of her, she used a third of the precious half hour we had to eat to purge. I couldn’t help but laugh at the last statement—a sign that, despite her bad week, her sense of humor was still intact.

Before I continue, I need to give a bit more background about this friend. We initially met each other through my girlfriend at the time (They were line sisters), and we grew to be friends over the span of that relationship, bonding over the same hate for Kobe Bryant. Since we both worked near downtown, we’d occasionally meet for lunch. Also, Nicki is very good-looking. So good-looking that there was never a time when we were together where men didn’t either give me the subtle head nod of impressededness or try to sneak peeks (or slip numbers) when they thought I wasn’t paying attention.

Why does this matter? Well, she got an emergency call during lunch and had to run out. We said our goodbyes, she walked out, and I could see her through the restaurant’s window, waiting for a bus across the street. I didn’t ask what the call was about, but it obviously upset her even more. As she stood there, her face sullen, her body language anxious, it finally dawned on me.

After hearing Nicki tell me the details of her awful week, watching her take a phone call that somehow made things even worse, and seeing her wait for a bus, clearly upset, it angered me knowing there was a good chance some guy would notice this beautiful woman—depressed for various reasons—and politely (but insistently) demand that she put a smile on her face