When I was in high school, I loved the song "David Duchovny" by Bree Sharp. I still love it, because it is the kind of song we can all relate to. Who hasn't been frustrated by a fantasy crush on a celebrity? Also, it is a song that is meant to be sung out of tune at the top of your lungs in places like the shower or driving alone in the car or at a Karaoke bar.
Today, I discovered another song by Bree Sharp through my Ani DiFranco station on Pandora. It was a live version of "Not Your Girl." While "David Duchovny" is a silly song about a dream that will obviously never be realized, "Not Your Girl" is a deeper pain. In it, I hear the story of girl in a relationship with a man who would rather be with someone else, but she keeps hoping that he will eventually see her as the someone else he wants.
The frustration and hurt expressed in "Not Your Girl" are very familiar feelings to me. I have been in several relationships, yet rarely do I feel like I am with someone who adores me. When I say adore, I mean someone who finds himself thinking about me every other minute and can't hardly breathe when he remembers the way I smiled the night before. I want someone who would lasso the moon for me even if he knew he couldn't. In sum, I want someone who would be as in to me as I am in to him. I'm aware that this isn't realistic or healthy or enduring, but it is what I recently find myself craving.
In some situations, I have had men express such sentiments early in the relationship. I find this suspicious since they can not possibly yet understand who I am or what they are getting into. Only one man seems to actually love me despite being familiar with my extensive flaws, but he is also completely unavailable right now and possibly forever.
What is further frustrating is that I see many of my friends finding the adoring partners that I want. Tons of men tell them how beautiful they are and how they have never met a more amazing person. Maybe my perception is skewed, but I have only ever heard one man say these things and actually believed him. I suppose that many of the declarations my friends hear lack sincerity as well. Still, I feel unworthy in comparison to them, even when what they have isn't something I want.
The real question I have at the moment is why do I want this adoring man in my life so much more now than I have in the past? Before I could listen to a song like "Not Your Girl" and relate to it, but I believed in myself. The difference is before I would have compromised a lot less for a relationship than I would now. So, what happened?
I believe that once again the answer lies with my family relationships. Before the three months that I had to live with grandmother in 2009, I had not spent any extended period of time with any single family member for seven and half years. I cut off most of contact with them and was secure in the righteousness of what I was doing. But then I got knocked on my ass by my own unwise and impulsive choices and ended up returning to my birth place and seeing my immediate family several times a month. Without being fully aware of it, I ceded control and lost my credibility. Now, the ball was in their court.
On a logical level, nothing has changed expect that I have more complete information than before, but nothing changed the basic understanding I have of my family. I know that they cannot love me and that it does not mean there is anything wrong with me but rather is an indication of the level of their dysfunctionality. However, emotionally, I wanted to believe that I was the one in control and that their hostility would go away if I ever chose to back down from my position. I wanted to believe that I was precious to my mother and father as they said I was despite what their actions implied. But when I had to go back home and be around them, that fantasy was shattered. I realized how truly unloved I am. My family members believe they love me because they are supposed to and they sometimes do things for me in an attempt to show the love that they think they are supposed to feel for me. But they don't actually love me.
I'm not trying to gain sympathy or pity by writing this. And I'm sure there are people out there who will think I'm exaggerating or that everyone's family is like that. And I'm also sure those people are wrong. My family's level of dysfunctionality is much higher than the normal every-day dysfunctionality we all live with. It is not something experienced by the majority population. This is just a truth I need to understand before I can accept it and take the steps to keep it from eroding my quality of life.
Right now, I can see what has motivated my yearning for someone to yearn for me and why I find myself diving carelessly into impossible relationships that I know will not end well. I don't know what to do about it yet, but having defined the problem should make finding the solution easier. For the moment, I think I will listen to "Not Your Girl" over and over again.

My first boyfriend and I broke up five years ago today. Our relationship lasted about four years, but I let him control my heart for six and a half years total. Of those five years since he dumped me, I have spent only three not considering a future with him to be a serious option. I think an appropriate way to celebrate this anniversary is to explore the positive ways that I have changed since then.
The biggest way I have changed is I do not have many absolutes that I believe in anymore. I can see all the different ways that people show their love for one another that I could not see before. Then, I could only see how I loved and did not understand other people could not and did not always express their love in the way that I did. I believed in things without thinking about them. For example, I did not like listening to a lot of rap or hip-hop because I believed it disrespected women. They had too many references to bitches and whores. Now, I can understand those references are just a small part of the picture. Rap and hip-hop are much more than what I thought they were.
When we broke up, I had almost no sexual experiences with other men. I saw myself as too fat to be attractive. Overtime, I have come to terms with my body and I know there are men who would even call me hot. On bad days, I still think of myself as fat but usually I can recognize having some extra weight is not the same as fat. My ex-boyfriend’s perception of beauty was strange, to say the least, and I constantly interpreted his lack of opinion to mean I was not attractive. I have heard enough appreciative outbursts from drunk strangers (and occasionally sober ones) to know that this is not true. To some degree, I have even begun to believe it myself and look forward to the day that I no longer need to hear from someone else to know that it is true.
Now, I am okay living by myself. I still have a long ways to go to become the person that I want to be, but I know I can do it and I know I can survive the small tragedies in life. I was a mess when I first found myself sleeping in bed alone. However, I have no regrets and I’m glad that our relationship is over.

Why does it seem like men have so much less to worry about when it comes to sex than women? For me, as a woman, sex can be dangerous and demoralizing. But I don’t see men experiencing the same problems that women experience. Diseases such as HPV, gonorrhea and chlamydia all cause more problems for women than for men. Additionally, it is more likely that a woman will catch something from a man than vice versa. And then there’s pregnancy, a condition which brings so many health risks along with whatever blessings an individual may choose to see in it.
All of these are concrete, measurable dangers to women that aren’t as threatening to men. Of course, sex poses certain measurable dangers to men, but my point is they seem to be greater for women. The mental and emotional dangers also seem to be greater. Maybe this has to do with the roles society has established for males and females. Maybe it has to do with the already-mentioned physical dangers. But sex seems to be more thoroughly intertwined with a woman’s emotions.
I’m not talking about the belief that most women think sex cannot exist without love. Sure, there are probably women that believe that and some men, too. No, what I’m talking about goes deeper than that.
In my experience, men can be pushy. I’m a passive person and when I’m drunk and/or exhausted, it is just easier to give in then to keep saying no or run away. Believe me, I understand the implications of what I’m saying and what it reveals about me, but I want to make a point. Most of the time, when I reflect on a particular encounter I find myself thinking it was fun at the moment but not something I particularly want to do again. However, other times, I find myself viewing an encounter as a reflection of my self-image. But, oddly, it doesn’t seem to bother the man (or men) who was involved.
How is it that immediately after and even during sex I am infuriated at both him and myself? Him for having pushed me and pushed me and refusing to hear me say, “no, I don’t feel like it” or “no, I really don’t like doing it that way” and myself for not having stood my ground and eventually just giving into him. Yet, he is completely fine, asking me if I had fun, even calling me a couple hours later and asking for more. Unbelievable! Not only was I clearly not into it the first time, I also clearly said it would not ever happen again.
Inevitably, some people are going to think, “well, if you gave in once, he thinks you’ll do it again.” So, that excuses someone who calls himself my friend from continuously disregarding what I am saying?
I am thinking the differences between men and women when it comes to sex have less to do with biology and more to do with society. I do not get upset about the actual sex itself. I get upset about how it occurred. Our society and a lot of other societies are sexist. It is more overt in some than in others, but it is there.
Personally, I don’t believe that men truly respect women. This even more emphasized when it comes to sex. Men aren’t usually called home-wreckers. A man is a player while a woman is a slut. When the majority of people view gender roles this way, it is exceedingly difficult to find a sexual relationship with a man who doesn’t in some way find it easier to justify his own promiscuity than that of whomever he is fucking.
In such an environment, it would be impossible not to be emotional. It is infuriating so many people do the same thing you do with less consequences simply because they are men. It is infuriating that such a pleasurable activity can become so dangerous just because you are a woman. And it is even more infuriating that some people actually believe this is the way it should be, a natural division between the genders.

One quiet night, I was browsing the ‘watch instantly’ movies on Netflix when I came across a movie titled Strictly Sexual. After looking through another couple of pages, I decided it would probably fit my mood best. Two well-to-do career women in Los Angeles propose to two construction workers they met at a bar that the men stay in the tent next to the pool. In exchange, they provide sex to the women whenever they want it.
Their first night there, the women invite the two guys in for dinner. The conversation becomes tense when one of the men says the reason they don’t have girlfriends is because women are morons. They always dump men who are too nice to them.
A few days after watching the movie, I was walking with a good friend of mine and explaining to her that I was considering writing about issues having to do with sexuality. “Oh,” she says, “you really have to write about men who are always complaining that women don’t want nice guys.”
Wow, I thought, how interesting she would say that so soon after the movie I had just seen. Even more interesting was what she said next; men who usually claim to be the nice guy aren’t that nice. Weird, since the character in the movie who complains about women dumping nice guys was the biggest asshole of all. In one scene, he tells his girlfriend he can solve all the problems she is paying her therapist to help her with in three little words; eat less food. She immediately dumps his ass and he presumably continues to wonder why women dump “nice” guys. Maybe my friend had a point. Admittedly, men proclaiming to be nice guys automatically invoke a certain level of distrust.
A few nights later, my roommates and I got happily intoxicated and returned to our home to have a dance party and smoke hookah. Two of our upstairs male neighbors came downstairs to join us. While we haven’t spent much time with these two guys, they seem to be very nice and a lot of fun to hang out with. Towards the end of the night, the conversation once again turned toward nice guys (and girls, too).
One of them related a story about a female coworker. The woman was moving to Argentina, so they went out drinking to celebrate her departure. He bought all her drinks, spending quite a bit of money, without any romantic intentions toward her. Simply a gesture of friendship. Later that morning, he bought everybody breakfast.
He then told us that he was a very nice guy but as nice as he was, his friend was even nicer. His friend had recently been dumped. He was a nice guy because he always walked her down to her car and opened the door for her. She was not a nice girl because she dumped him for a guy she had just met at a questionable bar (questionable as a source for any lasting romance, but then again maybe she wasn’t looking for a lasting romance).
I do not mean to sound critical of these men or to minimize their pain and frustration. My experiences with both of them suggest that they are nice people and potential friends. I have nothing bad to say about them personally. But as I reflect on the examples they used to define their nice behavior, it sounds like what they think of as nice I would define as chivalry. Paying for things and opening doors aren’t necessarily bad (or good, considering the perspectives of those striving for equality), but they don’t really make you a nice guy either.
I suppose if I were to be honest with myself I would say my initial reaction to a guy who didn’t hold doors or pay for things might be that he is an asshole. Would I have the same reaction towards a woman? Maybe. But what if a person didn’t hold the door for you but was always there to support you through the good and the bad? It would seem that the door was a superficial, unreliable symbol.
As I reflect on my own dating past, there are definitely some assholes. But few of them seem to be all bad. The biggest asshole of them all was a man I will call Gringito here. Our relationship began as a booty call. Then our respective lives dealt us some shitty blows within a couple of weeks and we increasingly began to lean on each other. We dated for about three months.
During that time he would yell at me in public, ignore me, disappear overnight and just generally be mean. He treated everyone that way. But he made efforts. Pulling little knick-knacks out of his pockets, saying they made him think of me. He was the first man to ever make me breakfast in bed. His efforts weren’t consistent or very big, but they were meaningful to me.
Every single human being we ever come across is flawed. Our flaws are one of the things that makes us interesting. I curse a lot, I sleep in way too much, I drink quite a bit, among various other things. But I’m also compassionate and I try to make sure everybody is happy. I think one of the reasons I date “assholes” is because I feel more relaxed and able to be myself with man who is as flawed as I am. I would find it difficult to tolerate a tobacco chewer, but the tobacco chewer might feel the same way about my loud burps (although tobacco chewing is much grosser than burping). Dating and interacting with other people, especially people we are not yet well acquainted with is about figuring out which flaws we can each tolerate.

I have a problem with consistency. This is why I haven’t posted in more than a year. It’s crazy to think about how fast time has passed and how much stuff I managed to shove into that year. I have lived in Puerto Rico, Washington, Oklahoma (actually, I think I was kind of homeless during this period), Idaho and Oregon. I have had five different jobs. And I fell into the craziest relationship I have been in thus far in my life.
Today is his 23rd birthday and I suppose to honor the occasion it would be appropriate to dedicate this (whatever it may be) to him. I met El Papazón (as he liked to be called) one Saturday night in Old San Juan. Upset because all the bars were closing at midnight due to an election the next day, I was knocking them back fast and looking for someone to entertain me for the rest of the night.
I turned to the guy sitting next to me, gazing at him flirtatiously. He wasn’t attractive but I only wanted someone to hang out with for the night. The next bus wasn’t leaving until 6:00am, so I had a lot of time to kill. We started talking. When the bars closed we went to the casino, where the drinks were complimentary and strong. I gambled for the first time and won.
By the end of the night, we had come to a friends-with-benefits arrangement. Before I knew it, we were in a full-blown relationship. We drank and smoked and drank and smoked and planned our future together. Every night was a party.
But we were never a good match. We constantly struggled to change each other. We had very little in common. But how much do two people have to have in common to sustain a relationship? I asked myself that question every day for the couple of months we were together.
I still don’t know the answer. I can’t say specifically why our relationship failed. I’m glad it’s over, but I miss it. Happy Birthday, Papazón.

I remember meeting him in 1999. Smashing Pumpkins, Aerosmith, Emily… And before you knew it we were friends.

How many people do you meet in this world that have a cherry red jeep that could splash through puddles in a manner that made me giggle like nothing else (at least like nothing else before I discovered sex alcohol and weed)? I watched him love my friend and she him, as much as teenagers are meant to love each other. Maybe the pain was exquisite, maybe it was excruciating, maybe it escaped any adjective humans have managed to create (unlikely).

The drama was like no other. Too many painkillers used to treat a pain that could not compete with the gel-caps being swallowed, much less the reality of the post-high school world. An unsuspecting victim completing a love triangle that he didn’t know he was becoming involved in and by the time he did, he no longer cared.

Sex and misunderstandings, misunderstandings and sex divided us more effectively than Monica did Hillary and Bill. (How simple life was back then! To be able to say, “if he cheats, he’s out, no questions asked,” completely unaware that you might end up being the clandestine other woman in some dark corner years later.)

Ethics and morals seemed easier than; do this, don’t do that. Suddenly, youth ends and reality begins and there’s the truth. Nothing is black and white. The entire world exists in shades of grey.

Reflecting upon that version of me, I am not sure that anyone could have convinced me my shades of grey would vary from smoky to pearly in a single minute. Would anyone from that part of my life have been capable of divining the degree of change in me? Possibly, but the direction... I think about me then and me now and me in the middle.

So many different places people dishes smells textures buildings alcohols beaches have passed through the moments of my life, marking me in one way or another, rendering it impossible for me to return to my previous self.

In some moments, the degree of change has been less than a single breath. In others, I managed to leap through centuries of knowledge in a single second (seriously, I may not be the one you want to doubt when it comes to claims such as these.).

So, with a simple click of my mouse, I let him back into my life. Does he think he knows me? I know I don’t know him. His face is similar and his name is the same, but who of us escapes change?