I think most Americans of sick of hearing about Rep. Weiner, and yes, I know I'm a little late in weighing in on this. But, life got busy my friends. When you deal with a bitch for a boss, a mad queen, a zombie's nightmare, you will understand what I mean.
My question that I ask is simply this: If you never meet your online relationship in the flesh, does that mean you didn't cheat?
With social networking, the way to meet people has changed. Our introductions with people in cyberspace often feels like real, genuine encounters. Rep. Weiner referred to his girlfriends as "women that [he] met on Facebook" or online. So, Weiner did admit to meeting these women, just not admitting to the fact that they were relationships.
Weiner called his interactions with these women as mere communications with and not a relationship. A relationship implies infidelity. Communication, on the other hand, suggests mere flirting. The congressman was flirting with these women. He has admitted to fooling around with women online, but he refuses to acknowledge that his actions were unfaithful. What's worth debating now isn't what he did, but what it means. Increasingly, sexual adventures outside of marriage are taking place online. Is this cheating? Or is it something less, as long as you don't touch one another?
I caught my musician boyfriend cheating online. In the very act of sexual activity. Masturbating to some bloke in cyberworld. My friends asked would it have made a difference if he was jerking off to some cunt. But I don't think there is any difference. The act is the act. What he did was wrong. And I feel I would have reacted in the same way. Throwing the guy out of my apartment.
Weiner and my ex-musician boyfriend both had online encounters. They both admitted, or were rather caught, fooling around. However, they both never thought their actions were unfaithful. They never thought they were cheating.
But they had intentions of infidelity. Yes, they never physically had sex with their online relationship. But they spoke of their intentions in words, in pictures, and in some cases videos.
And this coming from a shameless person who speaks publicly of his encounters with men. I'm open to relationships where couples agree to affairs, but speak of these. Communicate. Talk. Tell me you want to fuck somebody else. Tell me. Let me know. Don't let me find out about it like its some bad dirty little secret.
I cheat. I have cheated. But I let my relationships know of my actions and my intentions. I'm honest. And I would like to be treated with the same dignity, with the same respect.
What do you guys think? Can an open relationship last? Weigh in. XOXO
Monday, June 27, 2011
Sunday, June 26, 2011
The One Night Stand
Update since last time: The musician and I broke up. He's the guy I caught...
Is it strange to go home with a boy if you have no intention of having sex with him? Is it stranger still to tell him you have no intention of sleeping with him before you agree to go home with him?
Last night, I met a boy at a bar. Well, not so sure if I met him at the bar or the club, because I remember seeing him at both places. I’m not accusing the guy of stalking and/or admitting to being a stalker.
After spending hours dancing with my friends, the boy approaches, waits for the approval, and goes in for his move. He pulls me into his groins and maneuvers me into his arms. I normally wouldn’t have taken too nicely in feeling like some sort of cheap ass, being approached and bumped and grind up on, but seeing as how, I just got out of a 4-month relationship, where I caught the guy masturbating to some other guy over Skype, I’m more open in meeting people in whatever means necessary.
After spending what felt like hours dancing together, the topic of our post-club night plans came up. At one point, we took a break from dancing to get some fresh air, or rather a cigarette break, during which he offered me a light, to which I humbly declined, stating, “I’m breaking the habit.” He proceeded to smoke, huffing, and blowing smoke rings, as if he’s trying to impress me. The chill night air danced around us. He broke the silence by asking, “What do you do?” It turned out that he was a budding writer. I told him I’m photography enthusiast.
I agreed to go home with him, mostly because the thought of riding my bike back to my place at 2:30 am seemed daunting, especially under the circumstances of alcohol. In the taxi, on the way to his apartment, I told him that I had no intention of sleeping with him. To which he responded, “I merely invited you to my place” and he laughed it off coyly.
Upon our arrival at his rent-controlled two-bedroom apartment, he whispers to me, “We need to be quiet.” He explains that his roommate goes to sleep early, because of work. However, in our current states, no matter how hard we tried to be quiet, we just couldn’t. We ended up disturbing his roommate, who replied, “Is that you, Brian?” To which any sane robber would have said, “Yes, Grandma. Go back to sleep.” Excuse me? Grandma. Turns out, Brian shares a room with his grandmother, who has lived there since the fifties, and I’m thinking, “What did I get myself into?”
Despite the absurdity of this, he took out a typewriter. I stood, or was I sitting on his bed, staring at this boy, who I didn’t picture to be a skinny-jean-clad youth hipster. But he proclaims, he likes the nostalgia, the aesthetic of typing on what many would consider a bulky piece of metal junk. Strangely enough, we took turns sitting at his typewriter and free writing. We shared our respective pieces: mine, mostly about the difficulty of writing on a typewriter when one is drunk, and his, a candid revelation of what he would rather be doing (which he took some creative liberties with).
He then shared his poetry with me, which wasn’t half bad. Next was the discussion on on politics, morality, religion, and every other issue. At which point, I wondered how more cliche the night could get. To my surprise, he leaned in and kissed me passionately. We made out on the floor. To which he decides to whisper in my ear, to get in bed.
That’s when things got weird. You see, I just really wanted to sleep. The make out session was a mistake. He really wanted to do the kinds of things people who met at a club and go home with each other do. We briefly made out again and then I either fell asleep or passed out. I can’t remember. You can imagine his disappointment.
In the morning we did the awkward goodbye. He didn’t ask me for my number. His grandma said it was lovely to meet me. As I descended the steps of his apartment building I pondered the previous evening. He clearly invited me home hoping for some kind of sexual gratification and at least a part of me knew this. Which led me to wonder what really possessed me to go home with him. Is it odd to want to go back to a stranger’s apartment just to not have to be home alone? Does every invitation from a male to spend the night include the hope of orgasm? I have no idea but I am really glad I did not have sex with Brian, guy from the club. I am still coming off the heels of a break-up and I am pretty sure if I’d had sex with him it would have been ill-advised. That said, I also don’t regret going home with him. Despite my teasing, I did enjoy the writing, poetry, and discussion portion of the evening. It was an adventure of sorts, and probably the best one night stand I’ve ever had.
I would like to state for the record that it sucks to go home alone. I go home to nothing greeting me and an empty bed. And also, cabs are expensive and it seems like the subways basically stop running after midnight. So I hope you guys can sympathize with my desire to find a place to crash, sort of speak.
Is it strange to go home with a boy if you have no intention of having sex with him? Is it stranger still to tell him you have no intention of sleeping with him before you agree to go home with him?
Last night, I met a boy at a bar. Well, not so sure if I met him at the bar or the club, because I remember seeing him at both places. I’m not accusing the guy of stalking and/or admitting to being a stalker.
After spending hours dancing with my friends, the boy approaches, waits for the approval, and goes in for his move. He pulls me into his groins and maneuvers me into his arms. I normally wouldn’t have taken too nicely in feeling like some sort of cheap ass, being approached and bumped and grind up on, but seeing as how, I just got out of a 4-month relationship, where I caught the guy masturbating to some other guy over Skype, I’m more open in meeting people in whatever means necessary.
After spending what felt like hours dancing together, the topic of our post-club night plans came up. At one point, we took a break from dancing to get some fresh air, or rather a cigarette break, during which he offered me a light, to which I humbly declined, stating, “I’m breaking the habit.” He proceeded to smoke, huffing, and blowing smoke rings, as if he’s trying to impress me. The chill night air danced around us. He broke the silence by asking, “What do you do?” It turned out that he was a budding writer. I told him I’m photography enthusiast.
I agreed to go home with him, mostly because the thought of riding my bike back to my place at 2:30 am seemed daunting, especially under the circumstances of alcohol. In the taxi, on the way to his apartment, I told him that I had no intention of sleeping with him. To which he responded, “I merely invited you to my place” and he laughed it off coyly.
Upon our arrival at his rent-controlled two-bedroom apartment, he whispers to me, “We need to be quiet.” He explains that his roommate goes to sleep early, because of work. However, in our current states, no matter how hard we tried to be quiet, we just couldn’t. We ended up disturbing his roommate, who replied, “Is that you, Brian?” To which any sane robber would have said, “Yes, Grandma. Go back to sleep.” Excuse me? Grandma. Turns out, Brian shares a room with his grandmother, who has lived there since the fifties, and I’m thinking, “What did I get myself into?”
Despite the absurdity of this, he took out a typewriter. I stood, or was I sitting on his bed, staring at this boy, who I didn’t picture to be a skinny-jean-clad youth hipster. But he proclaims, he likes the nostalgia, the aesthetic of typing on what many would consider a bulky piece of metal junk. Strangely enough, we took turns sitting at his typewriter and free writing. We shared our respective pieces: mine, mostly about the difficulty of writing on a typewriter when one is drunk, and his, a candid revelation of what he would rather be doing (which he took some creative liberties with).
He then shared his poetry with me, which wasn’t half bad. Next was the discussion on on politics, morality, religion, and every other issue. At which point, I wondered how more cliche the night could get. To my surprise, he leaned in and kissed me passionately. We made out on the floor. To which he decides to whisper in my ear, to get in bed.
That’s when things got weird. You see, I just really wanted to sleep. The make out session was a mistake. He really wanted to do the kinds of things people who met at a club and go home with each other do. We briefly made out again and then I either fell asleep or passed out. I can’t remember. You can imagine his disappointment.
In the morning we did the awkward goodbye. He didn’t ask me for my number. His grandma said it was lovely to meet me. As I descended the steps of his apartment building I pondered the previous evening. He clearly invited me home hoping for some kind of sexual gratification and at least a part of me knew this. Which led me to wonder what really possessed me to go home with him. Is it odd to want to go back to a stranger’s apartment just to not have to be home alone? Does every invitation from a male to spend the night include the hope of orgasm? I have no idea but I am really glad I did not have sex with Brian, guy from the club. I am still coming off the heels of a break-up and I am pretty sure if I’d had sex with him it would have been ill-advised. That said, I also don’t regret going home with him. Despite my teasing, I did enjoy the writing, poetry, and discussion portion of the evening. It was an adventure of sorts, and probably the best one night stand I’ve ever had.
I would like to state for the record that it sucks to go home alone. I go home to nothing greeting me and an empty bed. And also, cabs are expensive and it seems like the subways basically stop running after midnight. So I hope you guys can sympathize with my desire to find a place to crash, sort of speak.
Days 81-83 - Pros and Cons
I had this saved. And forgot I didn't post. My new job is so way demanding. Apologies. I'm going to find more time to make updates.
Pros of my new assistant job with an upcoming fashion designer
Pros of my new assistant job with an upcoming fashion designer
- Clothes. I get free clothes. Yes, they are last years designs, but nobody knows that. Except for those in the fashion world. But I say, men's fashion doesn't change as much as the trends in women's fashion.
- Alcohol. Any fashion event you go to has cocktails. Cocktails or wine for free. People in fashion love to party and get drunk. They might not eat, but they love to drink. Guess that's how all the models stay thin.
- VIP. I get to go to so many major premier parties. I get to meet and mingle with celebrities. At first I was like OMG and in shock, but now I'm use to it. Oh, big deal. Like you're important LOL
Cons of my new assistant job with an upcoming fashion designer
- She's crazy. She's a bitch. One moment she wants a tall, soy, vanilla latte with no whip. Than she picks it up and looks at me like I'm crazy, "This is hot. I wanted it warm." Excuse me. I'm pretty sure I can not request a tall, soy, vanilla latte with no whip not hot but warmed. Than she'll tell me to go fetch her some sashimi assortment. I arrive with the assorted sashimi and she picks it up and looks at me like I'm crazy, "This is warm. I wanted it cold." Excuse me. Again, the bitch is crazy.
- Calls. She calls me. Even while I'm at work, she calls me. She doesn't even know my name. She calls me her glory Asian, her charity case. Like all of Asia is in the Third World. She calls me more in one day than anybody should.
- Gays. No offense. Yes, I'm gay. But the gays of the fashion world are awful. They have this elite closeted world that's like a sorority/fraternity and any new gay that enters "their" said world is an outcast. The gay fashion designers are the worse. The celebrity hairstylists are next. And than its downhill from their.
My new job is Monday-Saturday from way before sunrise to way after sunset, plus some wee hours into the night, because I must assist the fashion designer at her events. And rarely do I really have a Sunday off. People in the fashion world are assumed to be not so intelligent, so I have a lot to do. Make sure she's current on everything, even politics, which bores me. I'm so looking to getting off. Tonight I'm going to see the musician perform with his band. That should be fun. I need to get away from this materialist, selfish, I'm-better-than-you mentality world. The fashion world is like high school all over again, with more access to drugs and alcohol and the acceptance of eating disorders. I mean come on, that skinny model bitch can not be that size. She's 5'10" and wears like a triple zero. Not possible. Eat some KFC fried chicken. Eat a Big Mac. Eat something bitch. I might be gay, but I could so break you in two. In this case I'm the stronger bitch. That's funny. Who would ever think I would be strong?! For the life of me I've always been the whimp. And I workout religiously. Daily almost.
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