There are stories we tell and stories we don't tell. Here are some of those.
I inadvertently felt protected by going home with this stranger. My hand clasped in his, my safety too. We walked less than a minute to his funky place, but cool/funky since it was in the Marigny Section of the French Quarter where all the artists lived. The Bone pulled out a key to unlock his white wooden gate. And then I remembered, I made out with a boy who lived upstairs. We went to high school together.
Read MoreIt was one of my favorite summers. I never got carded at bars, and sometimes I wouldn’t even get charged for my cranberry vodkas. I would demurely wander into a bar and scope out the room. I felt like everyone was waiting for me to show up even though they didn’t know me like…they needed me. Whenever the bartender would say my drink was on the house, I assumed it was because he detected my star quality presence. Or perhaps he took pity on me. How come this teenage girl is all alone? She doesn’t have any friends? What’s wrong with her? So sad. Let her drink for free.
Read MoreThere’s something about sex and sadness that goes together like cheese and crackers. To be more specific, my favorite combination is fucking a complete stranger while grieving for a deep deprivation that has haunted me my entire life. And that’s equivalent to a Trader Joe’s Raisin Rosemary Crisp with goat cheese. Yum!
I went to one of the most expensive private schools in the South called Country Day. It was located in Old Metairie, a suburb adjacent to New Orleans where all the rich, white people lived…the ones that voted for David Duke. We also lived in Old Metairie, walking distance from school. Or as I preferred, a 7 minute bike ride.
Read MoreOur pool was green growing up. My dad said that chlorine wasn’t healthy for the skin. But really, there wasn’t any money left to pay for a pool guy. We were all living off of my murdered mother’s inheritance. My dad was basically a kid just like me and my brother. He never worked like other dads did and was always home. He was either watching TV, having sex with whomever, or at the typewriter retyping W.B. Yeats poems and other writers’ work that he liked when he was younger. My dad was tall and strong and opened up soup and Chef Boyardee Ravioli cans and other bottles that were hard to open. I still have a hard time opening up things because I would never even try when I was younger. I had no desire to learn. I didn’t need to feel accomplished that way. I’d always go straight to my dad. Well, not when he was upstairs having sex with whomever. I knew not to interrupt and ask him to open up a soup can. If he was preoccupied like that, I’d then go to my older brother and ask him to open up the soup can. The worst would be if my dad was having sex with somebody AND my brother would be in the garage (which was his bedroom), and he’d be with his girlfriend having sex presumably. Then, I’d just have cereal.
Read MoreWe were in my car, breaking up for the 47th time. Although this time was different. Paul had been with someone else during our previous…hiatus. She was 19 or 20, some obnoxious age like that. It was the first time he had slept with anyone other than me since the 6 years we had been together, off and on. I had been with more than one person, of course. Even when we were an official couple, I wasn’t faithful. But it’s different for me. I needed sex all the time. I needed affection. If I didn’t have a man doting after me at all times, I felt like I didn’t exist. See, I’m weak. But Paul, he was different. He was strong. He was capable of loving. I wasn’t. He wasn’t suppose to fuck anything up. That was going to be me.
Read MoreIn case you don’t know what Juggalos are, they are fans of the hip-hop duo, Insane Clown Posse, mainly referred as ICP. ICP are these two unattractive white guys that paint their faces with clown make up, trying to be scary, and rap offensive things. Juggalos and juggalettes (the women who listen to ICP) also paint their faces and yell “whoop whoop” as their calling. ICP has a very odd following. They mainly attract rough, white-trashy people. Oh, and I dated one.
Read MoreRaymond was a 34-year-old man, separated from his wife and daughter. He had bug-eyes, a large beer belly, and used copious amounts of gel to pretend that his blond hair wasn’t thinning. He wasn’t handsome, by any means, but was quite likable and energetic. He often talked like Chris Tucker and wanted to be part of the black culture so badly that he nicknamed himself “Redbean.” He had a corporate day job that he hated where no one would even think to call him “Redbean.” Once a week, he hosted a popular stand-up comedy open mic near the French Quarter in New Orleans where people only knew him as “Redbean.” Oh, and I should also mention that he was my boyfriend… when I was a senior in high school.
Read More6th grade was awful. I’d rather have a never-ending yeast infection, than relive the emotional intensity of early junior high. But to be fair, it wasn’t all bad because the year ended with my first boyfriend.
Read More6th grade didn’t started off that well. On the first day of school my best friend, Amy, wanted to try out the brand new zip line that our school had built over the summer, and I most certainly did not. It was a metal zip line that was probably only 15 feet long and 7 feet high. In order to “zip,” you had to grab the handle and jump off a platform that then would propel you swiftly to the other side. I was afraid of heights, even little ones. I hated anything fast that I couldn’t control. But most discernibly, I knew I wouldn’t be able to hold my own weight. My upper body strength was pretty grim. What can I say? I wasn’t the energetic sporty type. In fact, during free time, I was more of the hide out in the shrubs while daydreaming of a different life type. Amy, on the other hand, was athletic and exceedingly social with boys. I would describe Amy as a slutty tomboy if that makes any sense. She wore jean shorts, never dresses, and she must have gotten her period over the summer because she had a rack-attack going on. She confidently was aware of it too. I on the other hand, while I had received my period over the summer as well, was still wearing a white training bra. I had definitely gotten hairier and smellier though. I, too, was aware of my bodily changes but they had made me quite insecure. I wished I had Amy’s confidence or cup size.
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