February 11, 2002
I told a friend that my one disappointment in life is that I’ll never meet myself at a party and get taken home by me; she said she felt the same way about her doppelganger. Actually, I might not choose myself if I met me, because I’d probably think other-I was hogging the attention I’d try to find
some corner-lurker instead, someone not satisfied with a little gaze from everyone, someone who needed all of mine instead.
In my experience, the cliché that young, attractive, un-crazy girls consider their very presence in someone’s bedchambers prize enough (and thus just lie there), is a true one. Then again, the truly ugly can be self-conscious and even ashamed of their naked selves and make you keep the lights off, which always makes me really sad, and sadness is not an aphrodisiac. What you really want, I think, are the ones who aren’t ugly but think they are. To distract you from their imagined, magnified secret fault, they will explode like a kamikaze; they will try to make you fall in love with them to blind you.
This poll question “What are you like in bed?” was fun to ask, especially of complete strangers. The only frustrating part was that no one would admit they’re bad in bed, and I know some people are. So I’ll be the one to come clean: I’m lousy. Oh, not at first. In the beginning, I fall into that magic third category, the kamikaze group not that I think there’s something wrong with my body, but I suspect there might be something unsavory inside my brain, and I don’t want anyone in an intimate setting peeking in there (thus the bedtime gymnastics to keep them off-kilter). Eventually, though, they do stumble upon the real me, and if they haven’t run away, then I let my real sex self come out too. And she is a lazy, lazy queen. I expect my grapes peeled and roasted. How about you are you a peeler, a swallower or do you stomp ’em to wine?
©2002 Lisa Carver and Nerve.com, Inc.