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Draft

I lost my virginity to a creepy 20 something that didn’t think it was fucked up to deflower a gangly 16 yr old who still wore flared jeans and an exposed midriff. He was a professor at the art school precollege program that I went to in Brooklyn for a summer. I was there with the intention of meeting other weirdos who thought that wearing ill-fitting dresses from American Apparel made them different (it was 2007).  I have this theory that your first foray into sex will color your attitude towards it for a long time to come. Not because losing your virginity is anything really that consequential, for me all I can remember is the need to charge my pink RAZR phone, the cat scene from Boondock Saints in the background and bleeding on the train ride home. More likely because the way it happens says something about how you feel about sex from the get-go. If you’re waiting to have sex with your 3 year high school boyfriend and its super special and you’re really nervous and excited and you guys have planned something, like, SO special then chances are you’re doomed for a life of long term happy relationships with a healthy attitude towards your own sexual self-worth, sucks right?

If you’re like me, it’s in the cards that after giving a few blow jobs in the closets of your pals’ basements after a few too many shots of Dragonberry Bacardi, it will probably be on a dirty futon above a C rated take out Chinese restaurant to a guy with frontal Cross tramp stamps done in honor of his grandparents.  

If you’re like me and you start out giving a few blow jobs in basement closets at blow out parties following too many shots of Dragonberry Bacardi 

It’s pretty weird what guys in high school are into and what a girl is willing to do with the understanding that two at a time handjobs in the back of a Subaru Outback is probably the fastest way to make your way to the top of the social sphere.  I cant really imagine being really stoked to get a dude in the back of a ford windstar minivan or something to finger both me and a friend simultaneously circa 2006, but hey, maybe I would have been if it had ever been in the cards. I remember waiting anxiously for a text back from the spectrum-y but hot class president at 12:30am on his way back from some party I was definitely not invited to. Always the whole: “hey whatsup, wanna hang” and ready for it, I’m all “hey! NM! What’re you up to?” with full knowledge that what he’s up to is driving up my street to wait for me to sneak out the back of my house up through the nasty high plants. On those nights I would get in the front seat and act COOL. Or what I thought was cool but basically amounted to not making eye contact and asking how hanging at Tommy or Michael, or Zack or whoever’s house. We drive around the block, maybe up the pike a little ways, past the 711 and speed by the McDonalds where Tommy or Michael or Zack are probably sitting stoned and drunk and ordering 40 mcNuggets. He sort of squeezes my thigh saying “hey.. whatsup” and other sexy things meant to really drive me crazy with the desire to give head in the front seat of his family’s car. From the time I was 15 to my sophomore year of college I served this one dude and his need for casual front seat blowjobs. Sometimes even with his friends in the car.

 Cross Country is a breeding ground for horny teen boys with unconventional(…) looks and too much freedom. This is probably the result of hot nerd syndrome. Cross Country is definitely not a cool sport, it’s for those of us who didn’t make a more official soccer or football or tennis team. Those teams require skills beyond just running in a forward direction. Because of this you wind up with the kind of dynamic kids that are both nerdy and alluring, they command attention with their freedom to do whatever the fuck it is that they want. They’re parents are comforted by their good grades, their conventional appearances and they’re close crew of equally conventional friends. This allows them lots of free reign to drink natty light in various basements and nighttime playgrounds.

 As one of the only girls on the cross country team with an interest in male attention I found myself often in the backseat of a shitty hand me down car with too many dudes piled on top of each other heading from chipotle back to a basement chosen based on the degree of parental involvement that night. On those car rides I would often bask in the feeling of being the only girl, the chosen cool one, the girl who could hang. The real reason I was there had probably more to do with my total compliance in being the butt of sexist jokes, and definitely my willingness to go all out in the age old game of Padidle. Padidle is a game with pretty simple rules. See a car in the distance with one shot headlight, yell Padidle and any passengers of the opposite sex HAVE TO take an article of clothing off. Classic game, right?

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That New New York

I moved here 6 years ago to go to the Pratt Institute, an art school in Brooklyn.. and I get called a hipster a lot. I get it, I have a lot of the supposed hipster credentials, I live in bushwick (which is totally the new Williamsburg), I’ve had a PBR in the last 12-24 hours, I really don’t get why people leave Brooklyn to go into manhattan or people who wear color other than black, that is so uggs-north-face-yonkers… gross. I haven’t worn a color in 6 years, its SO easy doing laundry. I actually feel bad for people who call me a hipster because I’m pretty sure there’s nothing LESS hip than the word hipster. The last time it was hip to call someone a hipster was in like 2008 and I was already wearing all black back then. At this point, when people call me a hipster I take it as a compliment, All I hear is “Congratulations on getting laid by attractive bearded dudes at bars with good IPAs on tap!” and I’m all like “Thanks!” I’m actually on Tinder now, and my rule is no tattoos, no skateboard, no swipe. Tinder is cool, Tinder is this new app that locates strangers near you and allows you to judge them based on what’s really important, like pictures of their face or abs or if they think it’s appropriate to wear a fedora (it’s not). It’s like the best game ever, swipe right if you’re down to bang, swipe left to see the next cyber-slut. It’s super good for those of us who are better at using photobooth than having conversations. Tinder is funny because its all about being so, so shallow which I don’t mind. I really don’t need Internet dudes pretending to care about how much I LOOOVVE arrested development or that I’m always down for sushi all, ok-cupid-style. Honestly I hate reading the dude’s bios too, they always say bullshit like “I LOVE MY LIFE” or “WORK HARD PLAY HARD”. No thanks. I just wanna know you wanna bang me even though I look like a wannabe Mall Goth.

I take full advantage of how superficial it is but in sort of a different way. All the dudes in young professional outfits with like “hygiene” or whatever are immediately out. no thanks! I save my right-swipes for failed video freelancers who could give you a UTI on command. Actually I didn’t meet too many sexy art dudes with dirty fingernails at Pratt, which is surprising. Mostly just gays with top knots and a LOT of really sane, well-rounded people with like, no entitlement issues at all. Pratt is like really diverse.

It’s full of rich kids who take scissors to their Spring ‘14 Philip Lim bags for their DIY blog to be all: “fuck daddy and that trust fund, I’m punk now.” There are also plenty of fake anarchists who want you to call them sapphire, believe that sleeping in beds is for the 1% and smoke herbal cigarettes while sitting cross-legged. You know, those people who are virtually the human form of an upworthy post and fucking miserable to be around. I was actually pretty scared to go to art school. I definitively wasn’t some normal suburban chick with an interest in 'PR' (whatever the fuck that means), but I was still fucking terrified I’d wind up rooming with a sculptor with white-chick dreads or a painter chick who keeps one Fleetwood Mac song on repeat while she mopes around in drapey shawls. And actually my worst fears were realized when it turned out my first roommate called herself Emerald, hailed from Northern California and told me immediately that she had taken a year off to explore lucid dreams on acid with her fiancé who is a shaman and a wanderer. JACKPOT She also told me never to touch her shit.

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Don't Swipe Me Bro

  Tinder is a fun game. It’s totally reliant on ultimate superficiality, which is great when all you really intend to do with any kind of OkCupid-type site is stalk strangers and see if you’re hot enough to garner their attention. I mean like, even if you have no real interest in them. Lately I’ve been spending a ton of time on Tinder, flicking left mostly. A couple of my girlfriends have watched my thumbs as I absent-mindedly swiped back and forth on tinder pretending to listen to what they’re saying and almost all of them think I’m too picky. Lots of “Wait, not that guy either?? Why? He looked like he could be cute!” The truth is, I’ve devised a list of very strict Tinder rules that I keep in mind every time I open the app and wait for it to locate some singles.

1. Halloween Costumes (really any costume TBH) If you think that your Halloween costume was SO funny and SO clever that it is appropriate to use a photo of you wearing it in JANUARY there is a huge possibility that you think that eating pussy is gross and your celebrity crush is someone really vanilla & 100% white like julianne hough. Halloween is the worst, and someone who wants to reference their Super Mario costume and a night where they probably spoke in an antiquated “Italian” accent can only be as bad.

2. Any hat that isn’t a beanie or a baseball/flatbrim (these too can walk a fine line tho) I’m sorry, are you the token poet in a 90s movie about College bros out to get theirs and some hot blonde pussy all at the same time? Or are you an orphan trying to make it on your own in Bensonhurst with a nose covered in soot and a dead dad with a drinking problem? No? Oh man, then I guess you have no fucking right to wear a newsboy hat.

3. You think fake Moustaches are funny If there is anything that says “my sense of humor is stale and probably most relevant when worn on the gay bff in an episode of Teen Mom 2” it’s how amused you are by your sunglasses with attached plastic moustache. Or that tattoo of a moustache you have on your finger to stick below your nose in a moment of casual party snaps. Please go back to South Dakota and tell Chelsea that she just really needs to get over Adam for the sake of her baby daughter and high school diploma, god.

4. You’re a DJ There should be a charity set aside for those of us that have had to spend quality time with some dude or chick that thinks that being a DJ is a real thing. Your epic playlist of 2007 indutrialtronica limewire mp3s hardly count as music and if I had to guess, I would say you probably hate them too. When you list yourself as a DJ you’re telling us that you dropped out of a state university, think tank tops with sayings on them are cool and you’ve probably gotten crabs but only like once and you were at EDC and on too much Molly to notice, so like, YOLO, right?

5. You’re super active/hiking/surfing/BMXing with your shirt off This is actually my worst nightmare. When I accidently swipe you I have horrible premonitions where you try to convince me to be active and like hike in nature and shit. Holy fucking gross. No way.

6. You’re photo is very serious & in black in white or a headshot If you are having your friends take, what I’m sure you call ‘artsy’, portraits of you on a roof or some shit than please stay the hell away from me. There is a 10 in 10 chance that you are one of the Fedora wearing offenders and probably say things like “here’s to looking up!” and other terrible, twee shit. I’m going to guess that if you have a headshot it means you’re some kind of aspiring theater douche who wore a cape and ate lunch outside the auditorium in high school with girls wearing cat ears and moon boots.

7. You look like a yung-fratboi-banker If you’re the kind of human that would actually purchase a sunglass-chord there is a 200% possibility that we won’t get along. I’m super happy for you because I’m sure you’re like 24 and already make WAY more money than I will in the next 10 years but that doesn’t make your probable past experimentation with roofies and your Alpha-Sigma Brothers’ dick’s any more appealing.

8. Every one of your photos is a group photo...

When I have to go through multiple group photos trying to figure out which dumb boy face is the consistent one, its a time suck and just allows me to assume that you're definitely the ugliest dude involved in the sausage fest. I'm not fucking Olivia Benson over here.