“Hello? Hi, gorgeous.”
“Who — eez theze?
“Motha? It’s me!”
“Oh! Wha-ha-ha, ha-ha!” she laughs in that way that only my motha can; and when she does, I am willing to lose my own composure and start echoing that roaring, tear-jerking laughter of hers. (I swear, sometimes I can hear the voices of all the women that came before her, chiming-in from the previous century, and from beyond… wherever they’ve gone.)
“Who else calls you ‘gorgeous’, silly?” — I confront.
Okay. I do lose my shit here.
I’ve called the woman last night after a very valid question posed to me by one of my girls: Why are we so horny? My girl is one of those fearless broads who is constantly decked out in designer clothes, killer heels; who drives big, expensive cars and motorcycles while channeling her own version of Danika Patrick; and who has a few dangerous hobbies and worldly curiosities in tow — all of which she accomplishes with her own money, by the way. (Sure, there are times when she allows her power player to pick-up the tab; but it is never out of need or manipulation, but a mere humoring of his gender. It’s just a lil’ dance she does.) And to wrap up that phenomenal package is the woman’s wild sexuality and the body equipped to keep up with it.
Terms “fearful” or “unsure” would never be applied to either one of us; but when together, out on the town: Watch out! Trouble — in heels. She and I try not to go out hunting together too much unless in the company of other, slightly more co-dependent women who can distract us from baiting the men of our interest. But even if we don’t step out for the purpose of bringing men home, no doubt there are plenty of phone numbers collected. (What happens when we do need a man? Hmm. I can’t tell you, kittens ‘n’ babies; because we both prefer to hunt alone. Besides: We don’t kiss ‘n’ tell.)
These days, with plenty of aspirations and self-employment gigs to juggle, I tend to have very little time for entertainment by any man’s company. Because you see, recently, I’ve had to embrace the fact that most employers and I — just don’t jive well. (True, quite a few of my bosses have been distant relatives of the very Devil; but most people I know have the ability to suck it up somehow. Apparently: I don’t suck up.) So, here I am: hustling a career of a freelancer with few more stable independent contractor agreements on the side (as “stable” as those get). Add to that not one, but three careers in the making — and I myself am starting to feel like a distant relative of the very Shiva.
A busy broad I am, that’s true, with very little leftover time for a single girl’s dating life. Very little time — or patience. The way I see it, nowadays, my man — better be fun. I have to be stoked about dating him; because if it’s a drag at all — “Do svidanya, darling!” I’m earning plenty of wrinkles due to my lack of sleep and perfecting my hustler image already. So, to have any additional worries caused by the man I’m seeing seems utterly unnecessary, wasteful — and, forgive me, just outright wrong.
However, my vagina — begs to differ. By the feel of it, I am thinking I’m reaching the very peak of my sexuality; because unlike most women I know (except for my personal Danika Patrick), sex crosses my mind on a daily basis.
So, what IS a single girl to do? I’ve tried sleeping with friends: Always a loaded idea. I’ve entertained requesting a regular service from an ex: A horrendous, never-again idea! And yes, of course, I’ve attempted the whole casual sex experiment. That’s the better idea of ‘em all; but then, someone’s ego gets involved — and we’re back to the bad idea.
The worst part of that third option (and this, I suspect, is the part that most of you, kittens ‘n’ babies, won’t like hearing) — is that being a sexually liberated woman often results in confronting a gender-related double standard. I don’t think you need me to break this one down for you, but if I openly admit to a man that I am mostly interested in (and have time for) sex, he won’t say, “Nyet!” — but his opinion of me will drop a coupla notches. So, what I’m confronted with these days is a concept of Casual Dating: I do this whole dating dance for a lil’ bit (just like my Danika) until jumping under the sheets no longer seems rushed or slutty. And when someone can’t handle it any longer — I go.
“So, why AM I so horny?”
“Sank yourr grrand-mozer!”
I think what she said had somethin’ to do with her own motha — a descendent of a Belorussian gypsy. Apparently, this lack of sexual hang-ups is a genetic thing with us (which, according to motha — is also the reason for the troubled marriages and relationships in our fam).
“Well… Does it get easier with time?”
“Hmm. Nyet.” (Thanks for the honesty, motha.) “But you won’t care as much.”
One of the better qualities I’ve inherited from the women in our fam (from the previous century and from beyond… wherever they’ve gone) — is the responsibility we take for our own self-esteem. No man is ever burdened with caring for us, gypsies. But to find lovers who can accept such independence — along with our wild sexuality — has been tremendously hard, for centuries. So, we agree to dance with them, for a lil‘ while, until someone can’t keep up. And when the going gets hard — the gypsies go. Yet, according to motha, instead of inheriting grudges and carrying them into the next relationship — a dance or a casual date alike — we eventually learn to shrug off our losses and to forgive.
Well then. That sounds like a plan, gorgeous.