Sex, Eyes, and Filters

One of the few snapshots I can still dimly recall from my childhood is of a party my mom and stepdad brought me to as a child (I have no idea why most memories from my childhood that have been permanently scarred in my mind are either sexual or depressing) when I was around eight years old. It was during the summer, and the adults at the party had been drinking all night and so by that time (it was probably between 10 and 11) the adults were impersonating eels, dancing on the deck to the beat of the hip hop/r&b song playing in the background. I watched as one of my step-dad's friends drunkenly groped his close female friend and she responded by laughing and moving closer. The beer bottle in his hand lit up like some really bad advert for unsafe alcohol consumption and I remember being afraid that his hand was gonna disappear up her skirt and I would have to witness this and I'll admit I was a bit frightened at the time that everyone was acting like possessed, horny versions of themselves and I think even then I was convinced that guys were untrustworthy and loose cannons due to an unsavoury combination of having an absent father, my subsequent lack of a proper male role model, and topped with my grandmother's unrelenting man-hating attitude that has become progressively worse over time. Voila: A recipe for a lifelong struggle connecting with men. It's kind of ironic though that if you replay this memory 11 years in the future, the bass-ackwards version of my kid self is the drunk woman letting my guy friend grope me in front of 8 year old children...except take out the '8 year old children' and switch out best guy friend, with 'dude from club' and you've got your mark.

I can still recall the innocence and simplicity of my little-kid mentality. Anything I was exposed to that had sexual or mature connotation went through this little kid filter in my head. It was like the adults would say penis! or sex! and my brain would hear peanut butter and friendship. Only in hindsight did I realize my handy little filter covered up some pretty indecent shit for someone my age. I guess it's good that I can look back and go, well maybe that wasn't something I should have been doing at that age--I mean, monkeys?? I jest. But there was that unforgettable incident on Turkey Day by the pool table. And then that childhood business where you discover what's up in each other's pants 'cos everybody's a fucking doctor and we want to know what makes boys different than girls. Sigh. Not one of my proudest moments. 

And neither was tonight. Like I've said before. I have problems. Review the list of things that makes me punchable and you'll find that my body's circuitry goes apeshit whenever I am on display but even more so when I'm on display in front of men. Never has there been a more apt depiction of my abject patheticism (now a word because I say it is) than the other day, when I was forced to do the long walk of shame past a group of guys chilling outside of a Harvey's. There must of been eight of them, all in their mid-twenties/early thirties from what it looked like. Of course I only took once glance at them before my eyes locked with the floor, my feet doubled their pace, and my brain went catatonic so that any rational thought in my head advising me to simmer down was overrun with perilous embarrassment. This was a 8.0 on the Awkwardness scale.* Only afterwards when I regained my thought process and then my righteous indignation did I construct the following letter to the group which may be a tad extreme but I was still feeling a little raw. -Understated-


Dear Group of Guys In Front of Harveys,

Let's just say that we both didn't amount to the full potential of our species. You guys devolved to the point of cock scratching and shameless grunting because you saw a bit of leg and I was not able to withhold my obnoxious wave that was intended to snap you out of your ape-imitations but only seemed to get you more riled up. What I should have done was squat over a camera and let you keep the souvenir, you pricks. I think it is a dangerous thing when you cannot keep your attention focused on your burgers and own conversations long enough for me to walk inside, get my own dinner, and walk out. Instead, all fucking 8 of you had to stop talking, turn around, and blatantly stare as I walked by. And then dissect me after. I'm sure my ass was too big, my legs too short, my boobs too small for you, was that it? I apologize for not stopping to chat, strip, and provide you with some night time entertainment for a reasonable fee, but I'd rather eat my pet duck, you motherfucking wankers. Could you not for one second, use your brain and not your dicks and maybe think I didn't want to be shot down with sixteen eyes? That I wasn't put on this earth for your perusal and dismissal? Yes, I was hyperaware of each one of you trying to eye-fuck the clothes off of me (I nearly spilled my drink because my hand was three steps ahead and was virtually punching all 8 of your faces and if I could, I would eye-kick your ass into your throats you slimy bastards. You've driven me to this level of frustration over something as simple as looking when you turned what could've been an appreciative glance (which is normal) to a full-on stare fest as if you were trying to mobilize the particles holding my body together and sure, I'll wear my ice queen crown proudly if it means I can get a burger without feeling like I was just fucked and hung out wet to dry. Now, if you can go home to your wives and girlfriends and make love to them like they're the only girls alive while replaying the slideshow of asses, tits, and legs you have stored up top from your fulfilling day of attempting to mentally will teenage girl's clothes into transparency. Not satisfied? Well, try your right hand, that might help. Fuck you very much. I hope it freezes off and dies.

Kisses,

Jade.

I sound like an angry lesbian who wouldn't touch a man with a ten foot pole but my problem is not that I am a definitive 'man-hater,' it's that I am a little picky. And maybe have anger management issues. And also if you run around anyone with a scalpel they won't want you near their bits . . I don't actually play around with scalpels - or with genitals, Good lord, where is this going--let me rephrase: If you run around anyone with a Metaphorical scalpel they won't want you near their bits hearts. Essentially, I'm saying my bitchiness is not helping my man-comm problems. And explains why I possess an air of someone who needs to be thoroughly ermm...well, done.

God, this is becoming a bloody an pop-my-cherry ad on effing Craigslist. I know people are all going: uh, she's gonna be a virgin forever, holy shit what a freak, but that's fine because that's exactly the point I'm trying hard to underline here: I'VE GOT PROBLEMS. And I can say this in all caps because I'm 99% sure that you probably do too and like I said before: only ass-shaped, lard croutons think their shit doesn't stink like the rest of the world's. And you may have had sex but you also may have herpes so I would get that shit checked.
So yeah, in fucking conclusion, my problem isn't finding anyone that's attractive or fuck-worthy but it's the fact that sex is usually an activity that involves letting yourself get close to someone and it's not something I am willing to do. I have trust issues. You can quote me on that.

*The Awkwardness Scale: A mathematical concept and relaxation technique devised by yours truly when my self consciousness began getting out of hand. When I find myself inserted in a situation that warrants my embarrassment, I vocally or mentally award it a number between 1 and 10 (or more, if the situation necessitates a higher score) that I believe to be an accurate sum of the level of mortification at that moment. For instance, me tripping in public on a subway platform would probably be around a 3.5 while me tripping in the middle of a major intersection with cars paused at the red light directly beside me would around a 7.4. Having a piece of lettuce stuck in my teeth does not hold grounds for true embarrassment unless it was not caught by me after lunch and instead remained lodged between two front teeth until after school when I catch it in the mirror and my mind instantly replays, in slow horrific detail, conversations which I had with more than a handful of people in which they undoubtedly noticed it and if they didn't then surely they saw it when I was grinning and laughing my way through my drama skit in which I seemed to be trying to emulate the smug, frozen grin of Barney but with the gleaming lettuce being all: 'LOOK HERE!' in my mouth. A higher score is usually dictated by: a) more people witnessing the experience b) the gross factor involved (bodily functions generally rate higher) c) the attractiveness of the witnesses and d) the retention factor - meaning how long is the witness/witnesses likely to remember what they saw? Is it something that they'll be telling to their coworkers and acquaintances as ice-breaking joke #1 for life? This rating can be successfully determined in a matter of seconds. And don't judge, you wish you had your own scale. 

P.S: Some people say awkwardness is a self-perpetuated emotion. Those people may be correct, but are still encouraged to take a number, eat it, and may then sit down on their own face.