I Didn’t Mean to Hurt You Just Because I’m Hurting

I’m sorry. We never got a chance to meet and we probably never will because I led you on and your (crazy) excitement to meet in person scared me away and made me realize…

…I’m just not ready for this…

It’s really not an issue of sex. I’ll have sex.

It’s the little things. (Which aren’t so little.)

My apartment is a mess. Will you think I’m a slob? I can’t have you visit my apartment!

I’m a Mom. My schedule is crazy. I have somebody very important to take care of. You will always come in second place. (If you place at all.)

I’m sick. When I tell you I have “meetings” in The City, it’s my Oncologist or my shrink or my GI or my GYN. Can you handle my illness?

The Scandal. I stayed up all night thinking of fake last names to give you so that when you google me (and you seem like the type who would do that) you wouldn’t see what I don’t want you to see.

And the big things. (The Red Flags)

You were so damn aggressive. Why couldn’t you take a step back? Instead of suggesting we spend our first date at a swanky pool and then go back to your place, why not just a drink or a cup of coffee.

Were you really passing through my neighborhood today? You didn’t tell me that you would be passing through yesterday, so why the sudden errands in my neighborhood? That’s creepy.

I could tell how controlling you are after our first phone call. No, I don’t want to FaceTime with you whilst wearing my threadbare Yankees T-Shirt, my old glasses, no makeup and greasy hair. In fact, I’ve never even used FaceTime.

 I don’t want you to call a cab for me to take up to your neighborhood leaving me with no way to “escape.” I’ve been on my own for a long time. If I want to meet you, I’ll drive.

And the superficial thing.

I’m 5’4″. You’re 5’6″. I will never be able to wear my nice shoes if we went out or met up.

And the selfish things.

I needed to feel someone found me attractive. I needed some attention. I wanted someone to call me hot. I wanted to know that there are men out there who want to take me out. Men who can be seen with me.

I know I confused you and made you feel like shit. I am so sorry for that. I’m just not ready. I am just not ready.

And I’m sorry if I hurt you just because I’m hurting.


Great Loves: #1

If I ever see him again, I will probably burst into tears. I will sob and point an accusatory finger at him and through my deep weeping breaths say “You did this to me! It is all your fault!”

Once I collect myself, I will look into his speckled green eyes and ask him how he is. He will tell me he has a girlfriend and I will get jealous. Like every other great love I’ve lost, he will say ” You did it first. You got married.” He will ask me “What happened?” and I will know he’s speaking of the scandal. We will talk and laugh and we will feel that feeling that only comes with your first love.

I want to tell him how much he hurt me. How he didn’t only break my heart, he broke me. He held the key to my jail cell and allowed me to be free. The freedom we shared was bad. I want him to know that every time he fucked me, he fucked me up. Every line he cut left a permanent mark.

I want to ask why he used me at the end? I want to know if the “good girl” was better than me. I’ll say “She’s married now, you know, and she still carries a foolish grudge against me. She knows you loved me in a way she could never be loved.”

I’ll tell him that when he left, when he ran away, I was nothing. I filled that gaping hole with drugs and sex and self destruction.

I am still self destructive and I blame you.

Oh my God, I loved you so much.

I love you so much.

I want to see him and I don’t. What he is now is a mystery. No social media to stalk. He’s a ghost. A ghost from my past who scares me.

I like it when he scares me.

I think I scare him too and for as long as we live, he will never want to see me again. Because there will be fire and pain and the love you can only feel with your first love.

Classless Bitches

So, I tried to follow Sean’s advice on how to get more followers, and I started by clicking on some of the bloggers he follows. (Sean likes the ladies, it seems.) I read through three posts from the “lady” bloggers he follows before I began to get nauseous. My nausea then turned to anger.

Seriously, how many female bloggers out there have nothing better to write about than getting fucked in a bush or making fun of an ex-boyfriend’s stutter? Walks of Shame? Yeah. I’ve done that (not the stutter thing, that’s just rotten) and while it makes for a titillating read, it has absolutely no substance or profundity whatsoever. And you know what the problem is? THIS IS WHAT THEIR BLOGS ARE BASED UPON. They are written with such flippancy, such a high regard for themselves that it makes me ill. It does make me laugh however, that they all think they’re getting book deals. Girls, I just read three blogs exactly like yours. Did you know that Marie Claire practically knocked down my door asking me to write a piece about the scandal? Yeah, I could’ve done it, but I would have sacrificed something in the name of my name being in print. And it wasn’t worth it.

Admittedly, these writers are young. 22, 23 years old. I remember writing poetry when I was 22 years old and I’m not being holier than thou, I’m just shocked at how female “writers” have changed. It’s all about the sex. Sex sells, I guess, on WordPress, anyway.

I’m no prude. I have sex and I looooove it. I love men and I have relationships with them. I enjoy blogs that are about sexuality, but written with some substance, some class, Goddammit! Lola, for example, she can write about her sexual escapades with a wit and charm that doesn’t make them seem so dirty. And another thing about Lola, it that she’s real. Her blog isn’t entirely about getting fucked up the “arse.” There is humanity there. Emotion. Feelings. Substance.

I’m done worrying about stats and followers and comments and likes. I’m too old for that shit. I like my mundane blog. And my mundane posts. I’m writing from my heart, from my experiences, about my feelings and hopefully that will make someone feel something too.

And to all you classless bitches, with your daydreams of book deals, I really don’t give a fuck if you think my cancer or divorce or friend in Afghanistan is mundane. I can write about the thousand times I spread my legs too, but I don’t have to. There are too many blogs out there like yours. All you’re doing is giving some strange guy a hard on and some jerk off material for the night.

If there are any mature female bloggers out there who write about sex and love and life in a way that can move me, please, please step up! I need to know that there are still some sexy bitches who can write with some class.

Good luck with your book deals, Ladies.

Being Single is Fun. Being a Single Mom is…

My Dad died when I was ten, so technically, I grew up with a single Mom. I know the struggles she went through trying to make ends meet, taking care of her five kids all the while dealing with her escalating Multiple Sclerosis. The major differences between my single Motherhood and my Mother’s is that she had a slew of kids ranging from six to sixteen years old and a sister who lived downstairs with us. That alone was a lot of help for her. My older brother and sister were given a tremendous responsibility and times were different then. We could walk to school by ourselves and play outside with our friends with no adult supervision–she had some alone time–not to mention a washer, dryer and dishwasher. (Oh, my kingdom for a washer and dryer!) She owned our home–my Dad made sure the note was paid off before he passed away, so we would always have a roof over our head. My Mom struggled, but I’m quite different from my Mom. She never dated another man after my father died. I, on the other hand, had to deal with a phone call home from my seventh grade math teacher advising my Irish-Catholic mother that I was doing poorly in math because my mind was wandering. She told her I was “boy crazy.”

I still am!

That is one of the greatest aspects of being single again. I can date, I can flirt, I can have as much sex as I want with whomever I want. As much fun as that is, it’s not always so easy because, well, I’m a single Mom.

I spend most of my days at various doctor appointments and almost every afternoon and night taking care of my daughter. I love my daughter. I don’t know what I would do without her. Before any man, ever, she is the love of my life, but damn, that little girl makes dating so difficult. Shit, she makes taking a long shower pretty damn difficult!

Whenever I meet a prospective date, the conversation usually goes something like this:

Prospective Date: So, I would like to see you, maybe a couple of drinks or dinner?

Me: Yeah, great, that sounds good.

PD: How about Friday?

Me: Sorry, Fridays are out, I have my daughter. And Saturday and Sunday are out too, because it’s my custody weekend.

PD: I understand, what’s your schedule like?

Me: Well, I’m free on Wednesday and Thursday nights and every other weekend. I can usually meet up for a cup of coffee on Friday mornings.

PD: Well, Friday mornings are out for me, I work, but we’ll talk, we’ll figure something out. Text me when you know you’ll be free.

I know, I know…it’s so simple…Get a babysitter!!! Not so simple. Babysitters are expensive and the trustworthy babysitters are hard to find in this part of Brooklyn–some of them have waiting lists! Then you’ve got to to the interview, introduce the potential babysitter to your kid, have them spend a couple of hours together to make sure they mesh and the biggest problem with a date night babysitter is…no sex. I’ve got to go home. For a first or second date a babysitter is fine, but there will come a time that sex will become an item on the dating menu and unless it’s my weekend “off”, I can’t stay over–or even stay out too late at a man’s house and I certainly can’t have him stay at mine. Besides, I don’t want to come home to my daughter looking like I just got fucked. I actually have limitations.

I have some family and friends that can help me out for a couple of hours when I have to go to a doctor’s appointment, but they have social lives too, and it’s really difficult to get a trusted friend or family member to change their own social calander to accommodate mine. As far as school vacations are concerned, oh man, forget it. Cancel that week. I’m on lockdown.

One more important difference between being simply single and a single Mom is my apartment. Any man I choose to date has and will know immediately that I have a daughter, but I truly believe that unless said “man” has children of his own, seeing that Mr. Bubble on the ledge of the bathtub is a reality check. The children’s book I forgot to put back on my daughter’s bookshelf after reading her a story in my bed. The random Lego that is so painful when stepped on with bare feet on the way to use the restroom. Being simply single means you have an “adult” apartment, and for the most part mine is, but it is undeniably shared with my little girl…books, Lego, My Little Pony and all.

During the past thirteen or fourteen months since I’ve been separated, I have had some excellent adventures with men. Admittedly, they are fewer and farther between than I would like. I have also bonded with my daughter in a way that I could never imagine happening had my STILL husband and I had not separated. I just wish it wasn’t so difficult to have both. I suppose you can’t have it all, and I would choose my child over any man, any day…but..well, I’m boy crazy!

And I always will be.

The Sexter

I’m not quite sure when it happened, but I’ve become involved with a serial sexter. I am fully aware that he is bat shit crazy. We don’t see each other and we don’t speak on  the phone; we just sext. Truthfully, HE sexts and I just kind of respond with “oh yeah?” “really?” “That sounds nice.”

He’s filthy.

I met him at a party back in December. He was seeing a friend of mine but we were drunk and exchanged numbers. The next morning I realized that it’s always hoes before bros and I regretted exchanging contact information with him. I heard from him a few days later and made it pretty clear that I wasn’t interested in dating my friend’s current love interest. He was fine with that. A few weeks later, he texted me again. He and my friend had broken up and he wanted to hang out. Since my winter has been so busy, cold and generally horrible, it was really hard to make plans with him. Then the sexts began.

They started out as fairly benign sexually laced text messages. A message about how he loved the short skirt I was wearing the night of the party, another one about how he liked me as soon as he met me, how he followed me when I went to the bathroom and waited outside, planning to kiss me in a semi-private area of the party. I thought it was kind of sweet, but there was something about him that just reeked of a douchebag. I mean, really? Really? You were going to kiss me at a party that your then love interest was hosting? That shit is unacceptable. I told him that I was very flattered, but I never would have kissed him at that party.

Then he became more, for lack of a better word, intimate. I was wearing fishnet stockings that night and apparently, he noticed. He started texting about my stockings. How he wanted to rip them open, pull my panties to the side and slide his cock inside of my pussy. I’m not paraphrasing here. I remember being stunned. What?!? He started asking me questions about my panties and stockings and telling me how much he loved short skirts. I don’t think he’s a breast man. He never once mentioned my own breasts or a bra. Just panties and stocking and skirts. My responses were fairly bland. “I have lots of different panties.” “I like stockings too.” “I love wearing skirts and dresses, but it’s been so cold.”  He ALWAYS texts “I want your legs wrapped around me.” That’s one of his staples.

Over time, I began to realize that this guy is a sexual addict with a fetish I had never heard of before. NMCF or CFNM (I can’t remember the order.) He started sexting me one night about my public sexual history. I didn’t give much information. I think my response was “Oh wow, I  don’t remember, it’s been so long.” After my response, I realized that he didn’t give a shit about MY public sexual experiences, he wanted to tell me about HIS. A girl started jerking him off in a bar. Everybody was staring. They left. They walked around lower Manhattan until they found a townhouse that was under renovation. They sneaked into the basement, he pulled up her skirt and they fucked. To end their escapade, he left the “cum filled condom on the door latch for the construction workers to find in the morning.” So romantic.  This is when I found out about his NMCF/CFNM fetish. Naked Male Clothed Female (or vice-versa). Now, I’m no nun. I’ve always enjoyed sex and have had a few interesting sexual relationships of my own, but I had never heard of that fetish before and that’s when I realized–this guy has been around. And around. And around.

He’s sexted me at 6:20 AM to tell me how hard his cock is. My response “You woke me up.” He didn’t care. He woke me up again early one morning to tell me how he wanted to slide his cock up and down my thigh and rub it all over my silky panties. Apparently, he doesn’t like lace panties–too itchy. Makes sense.

I know that these sexts are just a distraction for me. I don’t plan on ever seeing him in person and honestly, he scares me a little. I could block his number, but I don’t want to. I want to see what happens next. His messages make me gasp and giggle. I know it’s terrible because he does have a sincere addiction and issues with women, but it’s entertaining. I never contact him. Never. I don’t have to. He’ll sext for days in a row, I won’t hear from him for a week and then “my cock is so hard for you baby, I’ve got my hand wrapped around it right now” pops up on my phone. As disturbing as it is, meaning he actually disturbs me when I’m trying to sleep or watch a show on TV as well as the fact that he’s clearly disturbed about women, I’m going to wait it out. He’ll eventually find someone else to sext and I’ll be history. But for now, the warped attention is fun.

And for the record, no sexts today.

My Addictions.

I have an addictive personality. I become addicted to things, people, actions, and substances quickly and when those addictions begin to bubble up inside of me, it could and has landed me in some trouble.

I’ll begin with the more benign addictions and work my way down the list to the more dangerous ones.

Clothing & Shoes

I love to shop. I’ve been known to say “fuck it” and spend the car payment or some other important bill on a hot pair of shoes, a party dress I’ll never wear, GOWNS–like I’ll ever need a friggin’ GOWN, sexy underwear, tank tops, maxi-dresses, cute jackets, “going-out” wear, lots of underpinnings and jeans, jeans, jeans-the tighter, the better! I lost a lot of weight over the past few years. I was pregnant, lost the weight, got a personal trainer–got back into hot shape, got sick, dropped to a size 00, so some of my clothing purchases are warranted, but do I really need 40 pairs of shoes? (I really don’t know the exact count, but it has to be close to 40 or 50.) Sneakers, flats, peep-toe pumps, platform pumps, sandals and boots, boots, boots. Tall boots, stiletto boots, ankle boots, Doc Martens, THREE pairs of winter boots (you never know if it’s going to be a snowy New York winter, after all.)  And coats. I have four or five beautiful dress coats for the winter, plus my New York winter Puffer, vests, hats, scarves, gloves. It’s a sin, really. But it doesn’t exactly harm me. As long as I have a roof over my head and food in my belly, everything else is “lipstick money.”

Beauty Products

I love makeup. The original intention of this blog was meant for product reviews, fashion etc. That’s why my URL is “suzyonthestreet.”My plan was to go around checking out NYC style, write about the dos and don’ts and makeup reviews, “how to” tutorials, blah, blah, blah… But it turned into something completely different. I suppose it was because I started writing during an intensely insane period of my life. A divorce. Cancer. The Scandal. How could I write about eyeliner and maxi-dresses when I had all of this other shit swirling around my mind. My insanity never stopped me from putting on my face every single day and still purchasing and playing around with my makeup. I love it. I love it. I love it. My collection is amazing and I try to make a point of using all of my products periodically so none of them go to waste or feel left out. I do have a few staples and I’ll write a post about that another day. Today, I’m writing about my addictions.


No big deal, but I can’t function without coffee. I need at least two cups a day and if I get a specialty drink, it needs to have two shots of espresso. If I don’t have my coffee, I suffer from physical and emotional afflictions. I get headaches. I’m a bitch. I’m tired as hell. Funny, for as much coffee as I drink, my teeth are still sparkling white. I’m blessed.


Please don’t judge. I know it’s the pinnacle of stupidity to smoke after being diagnosed with cancer, but my affair with cigarettes stems back to my teenage years. I smoked a few cigs a day back then, smoked heavily in my 20s and then quit right before my 30th birthday. I started smoking here and there about 5 years later before I became a full fledged smoker again. I was smoking when I found out I had cancer and my Oncologist knows about it. I can’t smoke in my apartment or around my daughter, so that curbs my habit a bit,  and I plan to quit once the weather starts to get cold and it’s just not worth it to crawl out on to my fire escape for a stupid cigarette. But for now, they’re one of my many addictions. They calm me down. It’s like being reunited with an old friend who knows how to just be there without saying a word. But, I promise, I’m going to quit. I did it once before and I can do it again. And once again, I’ve been spared any yellowing of the teeth from this dirty habit. I’m a lucky chick in the teeth department. Never had a cavity either.


I’m a flirt. I flirt with everybody worth flirting with. I have a quick wit and a thick skin and a lot of practice–so much practice, in fact, that sometime the person I’m flirting with doesn’t even realize it. I use my teeth and my laugh a lot. I’ve been told I have a great laugh. I also use my hair. I have long brown hair with straight bangs. I can throw my head back and laugh and have somebody mesmerized and they’re not even sure why. I even flirt with girls. I’m not into girls sexually, but if I tone down the flirting a little, I can make a girl feel good about herself or get something that I want. This is a rarity. I haven’t used my skills on a woman in a long time, but men, shit, I flirt with at least three men a day. It’s fun. I get off on it. Because I’m also addicted to…

Men & Sex

I’ve always been boy-crazy and admittedly, I married the wrong man. While I was married to him I thought all the time about having a lover on the side. I never did, though towards the end of my marriage, I was unfaithful. It was good, and the short affair plus my cancer got me out of a bad marriage, but I do feel badly for what I did to my husband. As a man, it must feel pretty shitty to be cuckolded. Maybe if he had fucked me more the affair wouldn’t have happened, but I doubt it. An affair was bound to happen. You can’t castrate a sexually charged woman who adores men. I’m not trying to justify my affair by any means, but I know he cheated on me during our marriage, he just never got caught red handed like I did. My sex life has cooled off tremendously since the trifecta of cancer, divorce and the scandal, but I do have someone who takes care of my needs on a fairly regular basis and right now, he’s all I need. I’m so tired all of the time anyway, it’s better off that it’s a once in a fortnight type of sexual relationship and the sex is so fucking good, I mean–so fucking good, I can almost make it till the next time before getting sexually frustrated.

You Already Know this About Me

Tattoos! I’m utterly addicted to tattoos. Not just the finished product, but the process of thinking it out, working with the artist and getting tattooed. The smell of the antiseptic, the sound of the buzzing needles, the different people getting adorned with different images. I love it all. Even the smell of A&D for the first three days after the tattoo is finished. Love! After my first large tattoo, I was hooked. I’m still hooked, though I had to take a break because of my illness. As soon as I heard the good news about my cancer going into remission, my first stop was my favorite tattoo parlor. I got my lady parts tattooed on a whim. I love it. I love all of my tattoos. No regrets.



A picture says a thousand words. I can’t write much about this. If my (ex)husband found it, it would be sent to the judge so fast, my head would spin. I will say this. I see a doctor regularly. He gives me prescriptions. I get them filled. I like them a lot.

I can not tell a lie.

I am an addict.


He was the one I saw across the bar with a smile and laugh that penetrated the seedy, smoky, vomit scented air. He was the one I was too scared to approach. He was the one I made my sister strike up a conversation with just so I could have an excuse to talk to him. He was the one I went home with that night. He was the one who told me it was my smile that could light the entire world. He was the first one I dated who lived in his own apartment. He was the one who encouraged me to stop fucking around in dives and with drugs and to get my shit together. He was the one who gave me the ultimatum: cocaine or him. He was the one who took me by the hand to fill out my college applications. He was the one who read my poetry and told me I should be a writer. He was the one who told me I was smart. He was the one who gave me my first orgasm.  He was the one who I could depend on, no matter how much time had passed, to give me his strong shoulder to cry on. He is the one I still call whenever I need a shoulder to cry on. He was the one who made me feel as strong as I know I am now.  He was the one who saved all of my love letters.

He was the one.

The Departed: Part II (Kurt and Courtney)


If you missed part one, you can read it here.

Summer was coming to a close and The Departed was thrown out of college with no aspirations to enroll in a local school, find work or doing anything other than drink and do drugs. I was entering my senior year of high school and only had a few classes to finish up before I earned my diploma, so I had a fairly short schedule. I was considered part of the “stoner” crowd in High School” (this was after my short stint as a cheerleader during my Freshman and Sophomore years) and I didn’t mind at all hanging out with The Departed and the rest of his junkie friends. They were fun and adventurous. We did some crazy shit…

The Departed and I began to become super close. We started spending all of my time after school together until about midnight each night. It was becoming increasingly harder for me to concentrate on my school work, but I said “fuck it!” It was my senior year! We smoked pot all day, drank a few beers, and dropped acid or ate shrooms and just laughed and wandered and fucked our teenage brains out. (

The Departed and I taught each other how to fuck. Fuck. Smoke. Fuck. Smoke. Fuck. Smoke. Acid. Fuck. Smoke. Fuck. Shrooms. Fuck. Acid. Beer. Fuck. Smoke again. Fuck again… You get the idea…

Before The Departed I had never really FUCKED. We experimented like sexual scientists. We played games. We made bets, the loser had to do this, the winner got that. Since I had my attic “apartment” and a Mom in the early stages of MS who would never venture up the two long flights of stairs to check up on me, The Departed and I turned that attic into a drug and alcohol infested love den. It wasn’t long before I was ditching school altogether just to hang out with him. His parents worked, so we could hang out in his house or outside during the day and in my love den at night. Of course, we went out a lot too. I had friends with similar drug and alcohol interests and MB was still dating The Departed’s best friend, so we weren’t locked together in solitude. We had our circle, but everybody knew that The Departed and I were tight and together we were in trouble.

It was a cold night in the late fall or early winter of 1994 when we were hanging out at the teenage dive bar Vic’s.  The guys all wanted to take a walk and The Departed asked me to tag along; he wanted to show me something. We arrived in a backyard or an alley when one of his friends pulled out a small bag of white powder and a key. They passed it around, each taking two scoops–one for each nostril. When the bag came around to me, I was scared, I had never done cocaine before and as adventurous and fucked up as I was, I knew this was big. I shook my head side to side when the key came around to me. The Departed pulled me over and asked me what was wrong, didn’t I want to have fun? The sex would be so good and he promised me (I will never forget this), he promised me that he would never do anything to hurt me. I took the key. I took the blast up each nostril and from that night forward, we became Kurt and Courtney-holding each other up in a drug and sex fueled relationship that was, looking back on it, wild and dangerous.

It wasn’t long before The Departed and I added the white powder to our regimen of weed and booze. We still fucked around with the hallucinogens, and we still kept our friendships with our respective friends somewhat in tact, but that white powder had us handcuffed to one another. His good friend Toby, was a major coke head and had all of the connections we needed to get our fix whenever and where ever we were.  As two unemployed teenagers it was difficult to afford the white powder. A lot of of it was “gifted” or shared, but most of the time The Departed just stole money from his parents. They never noticed, and if they did, they didn’t said a word. So many dollars up the nose and filling our lungs, fucking with our brains and transporting us into a world of beautiful illusions.

Back to the sex. We fucked like rabbits and in our 420, white powder, boozed up, hallucinatory state, we became increasingly less cautious about our lives. One night we after a few straight days of powdering my nose, I started riding him in my twin bed. I had just done a few lines right before I hopped onto his cock and started writhing and pressing and moaning. I dropped my head down to find his lips and we swirled the taste of the powder around each other’s mouths. I threw my head back in ecstasy, still grinding my pussy into his cock when I looked down at his face. It wasn’t a face of ecstasy. It was a face of fear. “Baby, baby, stop, stop…your nose…” I reached up and touched my nose and felt a small drip of blood. A few seconds later it was a gush. His dick was still inside of me and my nose was splattering blood all over our naked bodies. He gently lifted me off of him and laid me on my back, propped my head up with pillows and squeezed my nose with one hand, frantically looking for anything to stop the bleeding with the other. It WAS the scene from Pulp Fiction, only my heart didn’t stop.

“That’s it, baby, we gotta stop. This is outta control.” He said to me with blood splattered face and a bath towel pressed up against my nose. I nodded weakly. We were gonna stop. We were gonna stop. We were gonna stop.

For two weeks.

Two weeks in the life of a teenager is like two years. The inside of my nose had healed up, we were being very good–just smoking weed and fucking and holding hands and loving each other, but the addiction was there. We 17 and 18 years old and drug addicts. Fucking drug addicts. And we were known for it. We were revered for it. It was 1994 and we were Brooklyn’s own Kurt and Courtney. Everybody knew when we showed up, the party would be a good one. Everyone knew how much we loved each other and everybody knew we were fucking junkies. They loved us.

For all the wrong reasons.

Stay tuned for the ending.  “The Departed: Part III: The Departure” coming soon.

The Departed (A Love of My Life in Three Parts)

I was 17, and besides my first and short relationship with The Beautiful Puerto Rican, I was still shy and terribly inexperienced sexually. (Besides a one night stand with an older guy who took complete advantage of my 16 year old drunkenness…I still cringe when i think about what he did to me…nothing perverse, but nothing I wanted either…I suppose it was date rape, but that’s a whole other post.) There was a local dive that all the teenagers went to. Vic’s Moonbeam. It was a silver building with no fire exit and a few windows. Crowded from wall to wall with drunk teenage Brooklynites. They didn’t card a soul and I’m not even sure if the bartenders were of legal age.

I had gone there a few times with my girlfriends, looking to get drunk and possibly hook-up, but like I wrote, I was shy and didn’t realize how to use my sexuality or appearance to attract boys. One night as I was sitting in one of the three torn up booths, a guy approached my sister and me. He was 18, just graduated from one of the most prestigious Catholic BoysHigh School in Manhattan and I didn’t know it then, but a completely wild and self-destructive male. He asked us if we had any rolling papers, we responded that we did not, he said a few slurred words and was off.  Watching him walk away, I saw the danger and I wanted it. And him.

The next weekend came and went and there was no sign of The Departed. Another weekend flew by and I still couldn’t find him. The next weekend we met again. My mind is so foggy from all that I’ve been through, I can’t remember how we started talking or what happened to get us to leave together, but leave together we did. Much like The Beautiful Puerto Rican, I found myself on the hood of a parked car, making out like a mad woman with someone who would become a person to forever change my life.

The next week, unable to go to Vic’s for some stupid reason or another, i found out that he had made-out with a classmate of mine. Christina. I hated her. She wasn’t particularly pretty, but she was super smart, fun and had all of the confidence that I lacked. The next morning, my best friend MB, called me and broke the news. “Christina hooked up with The Departed.” I WAS FURIOUS. This girl had already swooped in on another guy in school who I was too afraid to approach and I wan’t going to let it happen again. I never got to thank Christina, for helping me find that confidence and aggression that  I was severely lacking.

Another week passed and another weekend at Vic’s was planned. The Departed was there. Christina was not. I sat with The Departed for most of the night, drinking and talking when he asked if I wanted to go for a smoke. Of course I did! We left Vic’s and turned onto the same corner where we had kissed a few weeks earlier. I pulled out a pack of Newports. He pulled out a perfectly rolled joint. I was, at that time, a smoker and a stoner, so that’s what we did. We smoked and got stoned and sat on the sidewalk and laughed and before we knew it we were on the soft row of grass that lines many Brooklyn neighborhoods (in the nicer areas) wrestling with each other, kissing and then back on top of another hood of someone’s car. (I can only imagine the imprints they awoke to as they blearily walked over to their vehicle, dreading work or bringing the kids to school or what ever it was that “grown-ups” did inside their cars as opposed to on top of them…)

A few days later he called. He wanted to hang out and bring a friend. I called MB. She was a known slut, so of course she was down to keep me company. The four of us sat on a park bench, getting stoned, telling stories, one upping each other and then we separated into the vast darkness of Marine Park.

He pressed me up against a tree and wrapped his arms around both of us. We were already in love. It was electric. Sparks were flying everywhere. Before I knew it, I had one more sexual act to check off my list. My first blow-job. Oh, man, I had no idea what I was doing, but he seemed to like it, so I figured I was doing it right. He came and I jumped away from the surge like it was toxic waste. He laughed, pulled up his pants, looked at his watch and we saw it was close to 3 AM. MB and her new friend were nowhere to be found. The Departed told me he would walk me home and he did–halfway. I remember thinking “I just gave this guy my first blowjob against a tree in Marine park and he can’t walk me all of the way home? What kind of shit is that?” I suddenly became conflicted.

“He’s leaving for college in a few weeks anyway, and I’m going into my senior year of high school, so fuck him!” I thought to myself. Until the next day when he called to apologize for not walking me home all the way. He admitted it was a dick move and wanted to know if I wanted to see him again, just the two of us. So we did. Back to Marine Park in the daytime, getting high, holding hands, and then of course, well…I don’t have to repeat myself.

When you’re a teenager, there aren’t too many places you can have sex with your boyfriend, I mean it’s not like “you’re place or mine?” Luckily, my Mom had converted the attic of our home into 2 bedrooms. One for me, one for my brother, separated by a hallway for privacy. My Mom was pretty naive herself and all she had to hear was that he was an Irish-Catholic and he was approved. I told her we were going to listen to music upstairs and she said she would call us down for dinner. That’s the first time we had sex and that was, non technically, my first apartment. That’s where we hung out. It was in the attic, so we could smoke out the windows and the smell wouldn’t travel down the attic stairway, secured by a door on the outside. We could roll around in my twin sized bed, throw blankets on the floor if we needed more room and man, it was fun. It was the first “real” sex I was experiencing.

Heartbroken, he had to leave for college a couple of weeks later. MB was still fooling around with his friend and I hung out with their group for a while. My “Gang” was still around, but there was football camp and new boyfriends and girlfriends and we were on our own that summer. Onto our own new adventures with out each other’s  protection or approval.  We said goodbye to each other and while he was away, I kissed one of his friends–ugh–this guy was a complete jerk. It’s a kiss I’ll regret forever.

About ten days later, I get a call from The Departed.

“Hey! How are you? How’s college?”

“I’m home.”

“What? For how long? For the weekend?”

“No, forever, I got thrown out.”

Classes hadn’t even started yet when The Departed attended a big Freshmen and got it into his mind that it would be a great idea to drive around campus, completely wasted in some girl’s car. Crash. Boom. Bang. Drove right into the Statue of some Saint standing right in the middle of the quad. Expulsion was immediate.

We were back in Brooklyn. And the stories continue…

Crash. Boom. Bang

Stay tuned for part two.

Don’t Shave WIth Baby Oil. Ever!


Well, I’m expecting  Mr. Irresistible (post and pseudonym pending…) to pay a visit to me early this evening.

We haven’t been physically intimate in about a month, when I felt like I needed some time apart from him due to the separate complications of our lives.

He’s been in touch and when I called him with the dreaded chemo news the other day, he said he wanted to see me.

We sent a few texts back and forth today and when I mentioned I felt “blah”, his response was “don’t worry, I’ll cheer you up.”

Of course that could have been an innocent statement, but just in case is wasn’t, I thought I should prepare.

I’m not sure which beauty magazine, blog of maybe even the back of the package suggested that baby oil is just fabulous for shaving one’s legs, but I wanted to be extra smooth and touchable, so I decided to give it a go.

Bad move. Bad.

I used the Johnson & Johnson Gel version and it was a mess. That shit doesn’t rinse off, clogged my good razor, made my hands so greasy I had to exfoliate them before I washed my hair and left a slick coating at the bottom of my shower.



I had to hop out, grab a new razor and start from scratch. I scrubbed myself down, exfoliated that junk from my legs, washed my hands and shaved all over again–and you know what?? There were STILL those little water beads that couldn’t penetrate the oil.

I was about to run into the kitchen and grab the Dawn dish washing liquid before I came to my senses, grabbed a washcloth and the last bar if Irish Spring left behind by the ex and started all over AGAIN.

But no worries, this story has a happy ending. After an hour in the shower, I am smooth, clean, shaved, washed, shampooed, conditioned and ready for what ever it is that he feels will “cheer me up.”

And if it’s not what I quite have in mind, at least I have a beach date with my friends tomorrow. These silky legs are getting some kind of attention.

After what I just went through–they better!