Let me first start off by saying I know we shouldn’t rate women or people. It’s sexist and needs to fade away. We shouldn’t compare ourselves to one another physically. Beauty is on the inside. Blah, fucking, blah, blah.
I do wholeheartedly believe in this sentiment but, alas, I compare myself to other women constantly. I can’t help it.
I don’t want to, I don’t like to admit it, but I do. If I see a wedding ring on a woman’s finger, I look at her face, see if she’s prettier than me, and immediately judge why she’s married before I am. I then scold my brain and remind “it” (my brain is gender neutral) that I’m a feminist and just because someone has an incredibly weird birthmark right under their nose that looks like a booger and the shrillest voice I’ve ever heard in my life, doesn’t mean that they aren’t the most amazing person on the inside.
It’s 2019 and we all need to love and respect each other and not judge one another. However, I happen to live in Los Angeles and therefore that previous sentiment has to be thrown out the window. When you live in a city where everyone looks like they stepped out of a photo shoot, you can’t help but look in the mirror every chance you get to make sure you look presentable. Even though you’re just popping into the grocery store to buy that one gallon of milk, who cares if you’re wearing a bra, there will be aisles and aisles of beautiful moms who just had a baby but are somehow back to a size 2. Except now their tits are bigger and their baby is cuter than you’ll ever be. But don’t worry, it’s not like anyone is near you, you’re in the milk aisle. These women don’t drink milk, not unless the words almond, coconut, or goat are in front of it. I’m getting to a point, I promise. I’m not just angry at hot moms who get pulled to register before me at Trader Joe’s. I know those women are just as jealous of me–I can go to the movies whenever I want and when another human latches on to my tits it’s for my own pleasure and not someone else’s survival.
As stated above, I’m an LA ‘4’–looks wise. I’m not down on myself and I’m not being modest. I, personally, think I am a very pretty girl. I’ve got big beautiful eyes. Great boobs. And my hair, goddamn do I have amazing hair. I’m a little on the “curvy” side and although weight has always been an issue for me, it has shaped a fantastic and witty personality!
I’m also saying all this as a 32 year old who has had therapy and found really great supportive friends. If you asked me this at 22 when I was my hottest/skinniest I wouldn’t have said or felt any of that. Aging is so stupid <insert eye-rolling emoji here>.
Thes reason I say I’m an LA 4 is because there are nothing but models and actresses around me. So statistically and regionally I’m a 4. I’m ok with that since my personality is an LA 8-10, which just basically means I can hold a conversation and I’m likeable. Not that that’s a hard thing but if you’ve ever been to a party in LA and heard the conversations being had, trust me, you’d understand what I mean. An LA 4:Looks and 8-10: Personality shapes into a Midwest 9. All my friends that have moved here from the Midwest tell me I’d clean up over there. So I’ve declared this upon myself. Which has helped tremendously with my self-esteem. If a guy doesn’t look my way I simply tell myself, Meh. If we were in Michigan I could totally get him. And then I’m oddly satisfied and I no longer assume he’s not looking my way because I’m not pretty/thin/tan-enough.
Dating is hard. Dating in Los Angeles is goddamn awful. As much as I’ve so-far trashed my home of 10 years I must say, I absolutely love LA. I love that if you move 5 miles in any direction you’re in an entirely different vibe of neighborhood. I love all the different types of people and communities. I love the men. Oh boy, do I love the men. I love flirting with them, talking with them, talking about them. Hanging out, being buds, being buds who bone. Dirty texting, picture sending, skype–well, you get the point. I love it. But doing that in Los Angeles is very hard. Everyone’s a flake. No one wants to drive more than 8 miles (which can take anywhere between 35 min-1hr), no one offers to pick you up, and if they need to bail they tell you the hour of, when you’re already halfway to the date. So I’ve stopped trying to date. In doing so, I’ve met a lot of men. It’s funny how available guys get when you tell them you’re not interested in dating exclusively. They’ll suddenly drive those 8 miles if they know it’s not a concrete expectation. When you know you’re an LA 4 but have the confidence of a Midwest 9 it oddly helps when you flirt. You have nothing to lose. I say “confidence” but really it’s indifference. For some reason guys really enjoy the “meh” <shrug> attitude I’ve recently adopted. I’ve gone on more “Netflix and chill”’s since I’ve stopped “trying” than ever before. Which works out because I’m not trying to meet anyone’s parents anytime soon. Let’s be honest, I’m not too keen on Patty and Tom who raised this oaf of a son who would walk me to my car but his pants are already off. Heaven forbid you put your pants back on, I mean I did just ingest a large amount of…
Ya see, men (see what I did there?) are plentiful. Gentlemen are hard to come by. Although most of the men I love and respect in my life are gay or already in well-meaning relationships, I have some hope that there are some good (*straight) ones left. I’m just going to entertain myself with the bad ones until it’s time to move to Ohio.
And with that, we’ll start with my night with Ethan. Or what I call…
That Night I Threw Up on a Dick.
This has happened to all of us, right? I mean it’s as common as accidentally farting in front of a guy, RIGHT?? Ok I guess it’s not all that common. It’s also not as bad as it sounds. It was embarrassing and weird but thankfully it wasn’t full-on chunk spewing. I’ll set the scene:
Ethan was one of those no-strings attached flings that was literally no strings attached. Neither of us actually wanted to date each other. We weren’t each other’s types but we flirted well and made each other laugh.
I’m gonna spare you on the details leading up to the vomit, mostly because I don’t remember them. We were obviously drinking beforehand. I say “obviously” because I’ve never done anything sexual sober, except with one person, and Ethan is not him. So I think we were drinking at my friend Marie’s house after work, or maybe at a bar. I can’t remember if this happened on Marie’s couch while everyone was asleep or in Ethan’s car. For the sake of this story, and my dignity, let’s say it was indoors, on the couch.
I have been blessed with no gag reflex. I’ve also been cursed with hubris of having no gag reflex. Whatever was happening I wanted to happen, but with the mix of the alcohol and how much I wanted to show off my ‘skills’ something wasn’t feeling right. I ignored the bubbling in my tummy because, who the fuck knows, and then all of a sudden I felt some bile come up through my throat. Just a little, but enough to make me gag, give a little burp, and pull away. I thought I was safe but nope, there was definitely some vomit on his dick. He excused himself to the bathroom to wash it off.
I was MORTIFIED.
Tears of embarrassment formed in my eyes. He must be so disgusted by me. I don’t know how I’ll ever look at him again. He’s probably going to tell everyone what I did. When I see my friends next they’d all look at me and say, “There she is. The girl who threw up on Ethan’s dick!”. He came back to the couch–pants still off, dick waving around–and sat down. After a million “Oh my god”s and “I’m sorry”s I went to the bathroom to clean up my face and gather my composure. I took a deep breath and went to face the boy who was about to make me feel as small as a mouse. I formed an escape plan in my head. I just needed to grab my shirt and my keys to make a fast getaway. I’ll have to get my bra and purse another time. I thought of what joke I would say to make light of this horrible situation and I headed back out.
I quickly put my shirt back on, I hated being exposed for so long. Apologizing as I dressed in shame. The funny thing is, he didn’t care one freaking bit. He shrugged it off. As if it was something as silly as accidentally getting cum in my hair. I had told him that had never happened and it freaked me out; he didn’t really give any words of comfort or reassurance. It was no big deal. He thought it was hot.
“Hot?!” I exclaimed surprised and a little weirded out.
How the hell was that hot? Who was this freak I had just let in my mouth?!
“I mean, every guy wants to have a dick so big a girl chokes. This isn’t the first time a girl gagged on my dick.”
His response was so weird to me. So interesting. So…male. It kind of angered me. When I thought about it I realized he does walk around like he’s got a big dick. He did have a certain confidence to him that he really shouldn’t have. He was a 5! A 6 maybe. It wasn’t “Big Dick Energy”, per say, but more in the “my shit don’t stink” category. Does he really think he has a big dick? He didn’t. It was average at best. I’ve personally never found a dick I didn’t like, except Freddy’s, but that’s another story. I wanted to tell him that wasn’t it. I wanted to tell him I threw-up because, although the length was average, the girth was smaller so it fit further down my throat blocking my breathing and causing me to spew. I wanted to shatter whatever notion was in his head. That that other girl gagged probably because sucking his dick was so horrifying to her that she couldn’t stand it.
I don’t know where this anger came from. I hated that even a man with a small dick had all the confidence in the world. That’s what having a penis does. It gives you confidence. I was jealous. He sat there on the couch with his pants off. His dick sticking up and out for all the world to see and here I was covering up my body.
I just wanted him out of there. Realizing how much I was overthinking this stupid thing, I let it go. I told him I wasn’t feeling great and he should leave. He understood. He got dressed, hugged me goodbye–we never kissed–and left.
The next morning I told Marie over breakfast. She laughed very very hard. I was a little embarrassed but mostly happy she wasn’t repulsed by me or judging me for still hooking up with Ethan. I told her not to tell our friends because I don’t want the other guys laughing at me. She shook her head and told me I needed to stop wasting my time with guys who aren’t good enough for me. Whatever that means. As she took a piece of sausage and mimed choking and throwing up on it, my mind drifted to other men in my past. I then declared in my brain that I would NOT hook up with Ethan anymore.
This was the first of three weird Ethan stories.
