Horny Beezy Countdown

I haven’t had sex in 37 days and I am losing my shit.

I understand to the Mormons and prudes and less neurotic individuals this may not seem like a long time, and I’m sure there’s at least one of you thinking, “Ok, hussy, I haven’t spread these puppies in over a decade and you don’t see me bitchin’ about it,” but for the past three years I’ve defined my attractiveness by a certain orifice’s activeness; bloomed late at 20, haven’t stopped getting plucked since; got down on myself if I didn’t have someone going down on me; so it’s difficult to feel desirable when the last thing to enter my nether regions was a jumbo tampon.

This hiatus shouldn’t be such a big deal. I don’t feel my virginity sprouting roots back through my fallopian tubes because there’s no undoing the poetic permanence of a Seis de Mayo cherry popping—but it’s like I have no idea who I am outside of having someone inside of me. All this time for “self reflection” is pretty much just masturbation and blacked out nights vomiting feelings for the boy who bought me the dildo to begin with. I’m trying really hard to find stimulation without penetration, to stop scanning the bar for some hottie to buy me a glass of poor choices—back row, tan shirt, ayooo, let’s go—to mature beyond the dirty puns and sexual innuendos but no matter what I do they just seem to Keep. On. Cumming.

Last week I’m in the dressing room at Forever 21 and I’m horrified, partly because I’m trying on a romper and it’s one giant diaper rash of disappointment, but mostly because the girl in the next stall is getting audibly upset over this dude Marcus who just, like, isn’t texting back. I can hear her friend trying to console her with the classics, you know, “He’s probably just circle jerking with his friends during Call of Duty and forgot his phone was on silent,” but I’ll bet you five over-the-pants handies Marcus isn’t sending a profound message by not messaging back. Maybe his thumbs got amputated by his insanely obese ex or maybe he’s taking selfies with kids in Uganda to make his Facebook feed look hella cool or maybe she’s right and he doesn’t actually give a damn but for the love of God, woman, there has to be conversation more titillating than griping about the last guy to suck your nips.

Of course I don’t say any of this because I’m not a total twat and my frustration comes not from eavesdropping or rocking a $24.99 wedgie but from knowing I’ve been that girl. I am the chick whose interests revolve around who might be interested; the one scoffing at threesomes yet inviting third party listeners into my relationships like a therapeutic orgy; the one secretly hung up on men that I joke aren’t even well-hung when the truth of the matter is I’m not even great in bed. I’m lazy and noisy and surprisingly sweaty despite said laziness and if what I can do with my body is all I have to offer this world then we’re all in for a seriously lame ride.

I’m tired of being yet another 20-something beezy posting about asshats from Tinder;
Of having “How’s your dating life?” be a synonym for “How are you?” when my answer’s never fine;
Of thinking about that time he called me Kristine, wondering if her version of cowgirl was rowdier than mine, comparing myself to a woman I’ve never met as if it’ll give me any more validation than a stranger’s whistle.

No, this isn’t about THE PATRIARCHY! or mommy issues or goddamn Emma Watson, this is a self-imposed mental chastity belt, an inability to like myself without someone else doing the dirty work and it’s exhausting. I am single and horny and constantly letting self-deprecation take me from behind, and it’s time I spoke up and said “Hey man, let’s switch positions,” because deep down in my depressed little uterus I know there is more to life than oddly angled dick pics.

I haven’t had sex in 37 days. And it’s about fucking time I stopped counting.

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