Talk About Your Sex Life All The Time

Don’t talk about your sex life? What a unique and bizarre concept. Me; I’m like the Batman of talking about my sex life. Sleep? I don’t sleep, I can’t sleep. While you’re sleeping, know that I’m out there — somewhere — dashing over rooftops, stumbling, running, jumping. This city needs me. This city needs to hear about my sex life. This is why I have exactly three and a half friends. No one can stand me. I am not kidding about any of this. I talk about everything.

Last month, I freaked out one of my editors by telling her, during an IM conversation, that I had just made a girl come for the first time in her life. This is not information that she had to drag out of me. I was not trapped in a conversational cul-de-sac. “Dammit, leave me alone with all your prying questions!” was a thing that I was never forced to say during the conversation. If I hadn’t told her, it would have evaporated and become nothing. I had never knowingly made a girl come for the first time before. Morgan Spurlock should be forced to do a documentary about it, with Morgan Freeman narrating. They should have bronzed the room. Tour buses; all of that.

Anyway, I haven’t seen that editor on IM since then. I’m assuming that the wolves got her.

I’m shy but I need to talk about everything. There must be others out there like me. It’s because I’m not in my real life; I’m in a movie about my life. Starring Jake Gyllahoalhanal (sp?). Maybe it’s because my first writing job was writing about dates that I went on, but I just don’t care. How could I care? God, the things that people care about. Just say it all and get it over with. Here’s a random excerpt from that dating blog:

(1) …So here’s my middle name and my cell phone number. “Andrew” and “(484) 883-8963.” I’d give you my address but I don’t have a permanent one at the moment. There, now you know my full name — Oliver Andrew Miller — and you can prank call me whenever you feel like it. Now you know everything about me, short of my social security number and my mother’s maiden name. (2) Here’s a complete list of things that I have shoplifted in my life: Levi’s jeans (I wore them out under my other jeans), a bikini for my old girlfriend back when we were really poor, a Mensa IQ Quiz book (apparently I am not smart enough to be in Mensa), a complete Smashing Pumpkins box set from some really bad party in college, tons of vintage clothes back when I worked in a vintage clothing store, Ephedrine (I thought this would give me extra “energy” to write short stories in grad school; it did not), and finally, of course, I have stolen untold amounts of food from grocery stores over the years… (3) When I went on my second date with Abby back in the day, we went to her dealer to buy cocaine. I gave her money to buy an extremely small amount of cocaine for me. So I’ve done cocaine probably four or five times in my life in addition to the one time that I told you guys about. I don’t have any more c–

And so on and so forth. Go-dddd I don’t care about yapping about all this stuff. I didn’t care five years ago and I could truly give a f-ck now. Here’s a list of all the girls I have slept with:

Nicole because I was a virgin

Amber

Taylor who turned out to be a lesbian

Jenna but I can’t remember for sure

Girl at party when I was standing by the keg

Danielle

I really regret this one

Liana

Girl in Prague please don’t mention this Tiffany, and no, it’s not Tiffany

Courtney bad decision

Mary II depressed girl

Someone named Alisha according to my old email messages

Anna supertall yet excellent writer

Mean Asian girl

Clarissa yes she was a bad writer

Justina when we were in the car and almost died

Jessica who went to Ireland and wrote plays

Jessica’s friend at the New Year’s party when we were broken up

Girl with lots of tattoos

Tall girl

Indian simultaneous orgasm girl… Shaunie! thank god for old email messages for name remembering purposes

Elle I’m the hottest girl in the world

Clarie from that southeast Asian country… Singapore!

Girl who had a daughter

Girl who told lots of jokes

Bryon’s friend which I feel bad about

April II electric bugaloo

Girl who had a son

Really skinny girl

Sonia who was a photojournalist in Israel

Alex who I always thought talked like Adam Sandler

Sarah who wanted me to whip her with a horse whip… gee, no thanks…

Nadia who many years later was horrified when I showed up at Yale Law School

I went out with her for six months and couldn’t remember her name until looking at my email… Krystal

Aubrey horrible goth Sarah Lawrence girl

Older girl in New Orleans but I sort of passed out as we were

Hispanic girl during law school finals

Girl that I never liked in law school

Lauren I always have drugs on me Loyola student

Stripper girl

Hot South African painter girl

Hippie girl

Allie

Den

Callie

Girl with about seventeen different tattoos

…And that list is also five years out of date! Hispanic girl? I slept with a Hispanic girl? I had no idea! See, this is why telling everyone everything is important!

“All ignorance toboggans into know,” said e.e. cummings, unless I’m misquoting, which I no doubt am. We’re all going to learn everything anyway. And really, this? You’re embarrassed about talking about this? This homely little sin? This is nothing. Perhaps a different poet will help shed some light on the subject:

I met a traveller from an antique land
Who said: ‘Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert. Near them, on the sand,
Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown,
And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them and the heart that fed.
And on the pedestal these words appear —
“My name is Ozymandias, king of kings:
Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!”
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away.’

See? We’re all going to die and become nothing. Nothing! Your mighty works? Your penis is the first thing to fall off after death, except for the part where I made that up. But still, someone will hold up my skull one day and say, “Yeah, I knew him. He was funny,” and then toss that skull backwards over their shoulder, onto the Terminator 2-like pile of skulls that is all history and time, if that’s not too profound, which it is. This will happen to all of us. …We’ll all become dust, so who cares about a little gossip, especially if it’s sultry gossip? Man, I don’t get you people. Here: The worst place I ever masturbated was in a porta-potty. A porta-potty on a farm. There was nowhere else to do it. You could hear cows mooing outside, and when I opened the door again, everywhere was endless green and it was all wrong, wrong, very wrong.

In college, I used to f-ck by the Vietnam Memorial. Not to make any sort of political point, but because I went to college in the exact middle of Washington, D.C., and everyone had five roommates, and there was no place else to do it. There’s a small area of woods near the Memorial and we had no real woods on campus, not really even a quad, even. So I did it there. I kept on doing it there with my girlfriend until one day a homeless person wandered up to us. He was masturbating, if you hadn’t guessed that already. “No, don’t stop,” he said. “You don’t have to stop. You have nice breasts,” he added. And my girlfriend and I were like: “Hoo-kay, MR. HOMELESS GUY, we realize that we don’t have to stop, but we’re going to stop now anyway. Mood. Killed.” And then we got the hell out of there.

And I could go on. But here’s a final quote from my old dating blog:

…I’m quoting myself here (yahoo!), but I said the following once, many months ago, in a previous blog: “I like excessive sharing. I believe in excessive sharing. It’s maybe the only thing that I deeply believe in, except, of course, for “the inherent sexiness of Keira Knightly,” which is such a given that it’s not even worth discussing. What’s so great about excessive sharing? Well… Excessive sharing = complication = funniness = more sharing and more complication and more funniness, which in turn equals the beginning of things starting to really happen for real. In my humble opinion, anyway.” I did believe in excessive sharing and I still do. Sharing is what binds us together, and I believe that for real, and it’s what I do in my real life. It’s not as though writing this blog was in any way a stretch for me. I blather excessively in real life too. All — or nearly all — of the people who have met me, and who only knew me previously from reading this blog, have at some point ended up saying the following to me: “Gosh. You talk just the way that you write in your blog.” Yep. True. I say far too much in real life too. I can’t keep other people’s secrets. I can’t keep my own secrets. Why? Because I want to keep the conversation going. I want to know more and more and more. I want to share. …And when we have all shared, when we have all told each other everything, then we will all be equals, and there will be nothing hidden, and nothing left to be afraid of. So I believe, anyway. But not everyone in the world agrees with me.

…That’s not as profound as, say, Henry James (“Live all you can; it’s a mistake not to. …Do what you like so long as you don’t make my mistake. For it was a mistake. Live!”), but it’s still kind of okay, I think. Blab all you can about your sex life. It’s a mistake not to. And you’re making the world a better and more honest place by doing so. Enrich the world with your own unique form of awfulness. For that — and kitten photos — is what the internet was created for. And that’s all. Go forth, my winged monkey creatures, and blab. Thought Catalog Logo Mark

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