Sunday, March 28, 2010

Kid Cudi said he likes my hair...

I don't know what to say, I've been trying to write a blog post about one of the greatest moments of my life for the last several days, now. I will however, analyze this picture for you.

1. My facial expression: I've never looked happier. Actually I look kind of crazy. I think I was star struck and oblivious. Kid Cudi told me he liked my hair (twice, he said "I like your hair," and then he said, "I really like your hair") during Q&A and then I managed to get a picture with him. Everyone says I should have slipped him my phone number of at LEAST my name but I swear I was so excited my brain literally shut down.

2. His hand placement: Right around my waist, and honestly, I was so elated that I couldn't even feel it. It wasn't until seeing the picture from my screen that I realized just how close I was.

3. My hand placement: That's right, there is none. My hand was hovering somewhere near his shoulder. I was afraid to touch him. Haha, fuck you, I know your laughing at me. He's my stinking hero/celebrity crush/favorite artist. Actually managing to get the picture was a major move in itself.

4. My outfit: Was fucking perfect (inner exclamation point). Its my hoodie dress from london. Classic black hoodie-look with white strings, only its really a minidress, worn with black tights and pearl grey shoes. It's not form-fitting and sexy, though short, but it has character and pays homage to the style of the man to my right.

In the end, Scottie disappeared into a sea of screaming fans and boys guffawing over having gotten an autograph on their Jordan's. Fuck y'all I got a compliment and a picture, and when I tell you that handful of hours continues to play on in my head... Some say I missed out on a lifetime opportunity to blah blah blah, whatever. What is meant to be will always be.

Wednesday, March 24, 2010

Too Much Makeup, Makeup Girl

I call her Makeup Girl, because she wears a full face of makeup to swim class. Anyone who loves makeup enough to swim in it, deserves to have their name changed. I've seen her outside of the water, and it looks like her foundation stands about three feet off her face. I wonder if she sleeps in it? I digress, but I'm not going to lie every time I see her matte brown face I get to thinking, Did her Mommy ever tell her she was beautiful? Did her Dad ever tell her to take that stuff off her face, 'cause she didn't need it?

There is nothing wrong with makeup. Oh please I've got a vanity covered in pigment, I love makeup. It can make your face look perfect, but the scary thing about makeup, is once you start wearing it its hard to stop. Remember when I ranted about how some girl stole my makeup from a party at my house? She stole my entire kit: Urban Decay eye shadows, Mac Studio Fix, Mac Blush, Nars lip colors, a collection of mineral pigment, a brush set, among other things that I can't recall. She even stole my cotton balls. Well, as my dolled up readers can tell I had a decent collection of quality stuff. It was like stealing all of my Jordans (for you readers who don't understand). The next day while getting ready for school I had to sit before the mirror and remind myself that I was beautiful. It was so sad; something off the Tyra Show. My makeup use had diminished a previously high self confidence. Goodness me!

I didn't realize that I had fallen that far. I don't even wear a lot of makeup. I keep it light and natural so most people don't know when I have any on. Actually, the only person who can tell is my makeup artist friend. I don't want to look like Karen with makeup, I want to look like Karen at her best. In short, I lost my makeup and I had to reevaluate myself and my self-esteem.

Best believe I got my ass some more foundation, and I'm running low so a refill is soon to be in my future. However, since that sorry little moment in the mirror, I've promised myself to enjoy more days in the week without makeup than with it. No lie, I can't go a day without lipgloss and eyebrow pencil, however the shadows the blush the concealer the foundation the blot powder the liner and the mascara need to take frequent breaks. I can't become makeup dependent again, because the more you wear makeup the more you feel you need.

Makeup Girl didn't start off as makeup girl. She probably only wore it to church and funerals at one point in her life and even then it was a swipe of mascara and blots of concealer on the dark spots, but gradually and increasingly she couldn't stand the way her face looked without it.

Evaluate your self. Makeup can highlight and define your features or blend with your undertone to make your skin appear brighter. It will not make you prettier, but what will make you exceptionally more beautiful is the confidence that you exude when you smile and speak.

Monday, March 22, 2010

Hey There Lonely Girl

A couple posts ago, I acknowledged the fact that sometimes (most of the time) I trade pussy for affection. That was written a couple of weeks ago, and the lonely spell has recently taken another dip. Can you blame me? My last relationship ended 14 months ago, and I'm human. Even the Bible says that "it is not good for man to be alone," (Genesis 2:18) (that's about the only Bible verse I know by heart...I actually got it wrong and had to Google it). I've been doing well on this single journey. I have learned a lot about myself and I have established some amazing friendships, but the kid is getting lonely. And when I'm not having sex to distract myself, I get to thinking about the Ex.

It's always uncomfortable discussing an ex, because the men in your future want to be sure that you're over him. They're afraid to be compared to him and if anything goes wrong then its his fault. I'm always afraid of being called bitter, that's like being called a witch in post-colonial Salem Massachusetts. It is a most powerful accusation, but no proving otherwise. The reality of the matter is that my ex-boyfriend does exist. He was my stinking first love. The relationship taught me a lot, and it also scared me out of seriously dating for over a year.

The ex the ex the ex. Do I really miss the ex, or do am I thinking about him because he's the most available thing right now? I'm leaning towards the availability factor. He says he misses me all the time. I know I miss him too, in theory. From the distance that a text message allows, I crave to spend a moment in his arms. Until I get to recalling last time I saw him and how immediately pissed I was. I missed him for a good 10 minutes, but soon after I wanted to castrate him and toss is testes under a lawnmower.

If I cannot conjure the anger that keeps me from running back, I usually text my three girlfriends. Each witnessed my relationship saga at some point and are privy to the madness that I endured. I text them and each responds with something that kicks my memory in motion. I clench my teeth against the residual anger and practically throw my phone down. It plops on the pillow of the cold and empty side of my mattress, a sound that mocks my loneliness.

Most times I don't allow myself to listen to love songs: I'm on a strict diet of rap, alternative, and techno at the moment to take the edge off. I reward myself with tastes of Anthony Hamilton and Maxwell when I'm feeling particularly strong. One album that I still to this day can not listen to is Usher's Here I Stand. It was our favorite. We drove to visit our family in New York and Boston for Thanksgiving and we listened to that album most of the way.

I realize that college life makes single life more difficult, which is probably why so much sexing is going on. I left an immensely huge family back in Boston: siblings like best friends and cousins like siblings. Back home I had little desire to date boys. Loneliness was cured by hours at my aunts' houses, or hanging with my cousins. If I were back home I'd actually spend more time taking care of my brothers, babysitting nieces and nephews, and getting bullied by cousins not much older than me. I think I've managed to replicate that family dynamic by frequently having my friends over for dinner, though that shit gets expensive. I especially like playing matchmaker. I try to invite new people each time, and I let my closer friends make requests on who I should invite.

My best friend says that I need to start dating more, but I honestly hate dating. I don't think I'm good at it. How do I know what men want to date me and which just want my lady space? Having put my sexy out all over this blog, I'm afraid that the only guys who have maintained interest in me will begrudge me a dinner and a movie before I am expected to deliver the pussy. Some have been appalled my audacity to even consider such. I am now a dating pariah, or is it really this difficult to find a guy. There are men everywhere, how hard is it to find one I like? Should I be actively looking, because at this point I was expecting him to fall through the sky, knock on my door, or sit behind me in a class.

I don't even want a full on boyfriend. I'm not ready for the full commitment. I just want chill ass homie who speaks my language: private, intimate, relaxed, giving, caring, blah blah blah. You know, all that good stuff without the extravagant drama. Well, I will continue to meet people, have dinner parties, and love my fucking life.

Wednesday, March 17, 2010

My Lovely Lady Lumps

"Have you felt this before?" the nurse asked.

"No," I lied. I have felt a lump before, but in all honesty I convinced myself that I had, in my obsessive fear, imagined its existence. I guess I wanted the nurse to form an unbiased opinion on the contour of my seemingly perfect breasts. She continued to roll her cold nurse's fingertips against the knot inside my chest. I squirmed to avoid the feeling of that lump pressing against my skeleton. I didn’t want to be aware that they were there. "I get nervous," I offered, as an explanation for fidgeting and face scrunching, but the nurse didn't seem to understand. She continued to press and roll and inspect, and in a matter of moments, I was crying. Her insensitivity made it impossible to bridle my fear.

"Are you alright?" she asked.

"Yep," I answered, as if the tears weren't even there, and she was clearly disarmed by my oddly placed cheery tone. She didn't seem to understand. I guess cancer isn't everybody's deepest fear. I guess some really do place M. Williamson's inadequacy over the thought of rotting on a hospital bed. Personally, I think I fear nothing more than cancer. I fear it more than God.

"Have you ever given yourself a breast exam?" the nurse continued to ask. I told her no, but the truth is I've tried three times. Twice alone and once with my boyfriend. Each time I balled, but at least with my boyfriend he held me and we had that emotional patch-up sex. This summer I finally braved a breast exam and found a lump. I cried myself to sleep and in the morning convinced myself that the lump didn’t exist.

Well, I probably looked pretty foolish to that nurse, who has probably never gotten tears during a routine breast exam. And when she asked what cancer my Mommy died of and my answer was not breast cancer, she looked at me even more strangely. Cancer is cancer, no matter where it ends up on your bod…right?

Though the nurse made every attempt to assure me that the lump was probably benign, she offered to refer me to a breast specialist so I could have an ultrasound of my lumps. When I visited the breast people, I was so elated to find that my doctor was a hot doctor. I actually couldn’t help it. He walked in on my paper-robed body and pulled on some gloves and felt me up. “You’ll get better contact with the gloves off, doctor,” I wanted to say. But I figured I’d save that comment for my next dream when I masturbated to his image. My right breast was a bit insulted to have been spoken off in solely medical terminology. If she wasn’t going to be sucked, I think she at least wanted to hear how beautiful she is.

The hot Indian doctor told me that my lumps – I’m so special , I have two – were benign and absolutely normal for women in their twenties. “We can have them removed, or we can just keep monitoring them.” Knives belong in the kitchen not in the body, so I opted to leave my lumps be. Besides, I would consider myself a spoiled human being, in that I never get sicker than a cold, the only needles I’ve taken are vaccinations and stitches when I was two and too young to remember, and the only time I spent overnight in the hospital is in my mommy’s arms after she pushed me out. My most invasive procedure to date has been the beloved pap smear, and while strange they don’t hurt too much. I’m afraid of all things of and relating to hospitals.

I walked home, but I was still unsettled. Was I making the right decision by leaving my ugly lady lumps? Well, since I had posted my worries on my Facebook and Twitter, my friends and family felt the need to comment. My cousins tripped on me, “YOU NEED TO GET THEM REMOVED NOW!” an attitude that I found a bit excessive, considering I’m the one with the dead Mommy. Some guy told me insensitively, though he meant well, if it ain’t broke don’t fix it. I kept getting word from friends of friends of friends who had had lumps giving me both perspectives. And when I tried to google my situation, the first article I found read something like “21 year old college student battles breast cancer.” I immediately closed my computer screen, and just so I wouldn’t have to see that headline again, I pulled the battery out of the back rather than simply close the window.

But finally, a friend of mine sent me a message that said she too had a breast lump and was getting hers removed. Days later, a girl told me that she’d had a lump in her breast since 7th grade. She’s in college now, so she’s been holding on to her lump for years.

So, if it is okay to hold on to a benign breast lump, or two, then there is a far lesser sense of immediacy and room for far more questions. Does surgery hurt? Will I have a scar? Will they ruin my breasts? Will losing a lump make one breast smaller than the other? How much does surgery cost and can bill paying Karen afford it? How much school will I be able to miss? Those were the physical questions, but the whole lump situation brought up a lot of emotions for me as well. Some were expelled in that poem two posts down. However, the best solution has been telling people about my lump so they can reflect their opinions, both expert and foolish.

My charge to you, ladies (I'm sure the boys stop reading several paragraphs ago), is to cradle your breasts between your finger tips and go lump hunting. It is common for women in their twenties to have a few floating around, but be sure to check them out, know they’re there and monitor growth or shrinkage. There is probably no reason for you to explode in tears every time you put a little pressure on your breast tissue. If you struggle with the scenario, go to a doctor, and perhaps a counselor, and get your issues worked out. Awareness and prevention are the key to longevity when it comes to terminal illnesses.

Monday, March 15, 2010

Date Night

I took a walk yesterday, and passed by a couple on a date. The chick was wearing a trendy outfit, but something about it didn't look right. She looked uncomfortable, like she was wearing someone else's outfit. I had to fight every urge and instinct not to go STOP! so I could re-dress her.

There is no denying that in general boys love a sexy girlfriend. My ex-boyfriend would make me get out the car just so he could show me off to any and every random rogue who came within sight of us. However, when the outfit is not working all those feelings of pride turn to shame. Many guys would prefer a girl in sweatpants to one who has on an outfit that isn't working.

Here are a few tips for choosing your outfit for date night.

1. Try on your clothes the day before, so you know exactly how things look and feel, what works together and what does not. If you buy something new, wear it around the house for a while. You'll get familiar with the piece, that the strap always slips, that the shorts ride up too high, that you can't bend over in that skirt. Just wear the best that your closet has to offer.

2. Don't wear your friend's favorite outfit. Wear the outfit that suits you (even if you've borrowed it). You may have a friend who looks hot in one thing, but it may not be the look for you. Take a trend and mold it to fit you. The chick I saw had on denim shorts, black embroidered tights, and calf length boots. High boots and shorts make your legs look shorter and wider, so only wear that look if you have long legs. If not, try flat shoes (or heels) with your shorts for a lengthening effect.

3. Wear a tried and true outfit. When you're on a date, you don't want an outfit failure to be your greatest preoccupation of the evening. You want to look sexy and effortless. And while showing skin is probably is my favorite thing (see image above, hello), it doesn't look good to show bod in clothes that don't hold themselves up. Don't wear a strapless top that requires too much adjustment or pants that give you super camel toe. The best way to show skin comfortably is with a v-neck t or a see-through top. These two looks require no readjustment of the straps and look a lot classier than a tube top.
4. Practical can still be cute. Wear flats instead of heels, pants instead of a skirt, and carry an extra layer if you have any doubts. Be comfortable as you can. Sneakers for me is entirely uncomfortable, oh my gosh I'd look like a fool, but heels for you may have you falling over.

5. Please wear clothes that fit, starting with your bra. Nothing is more disgusting than quadraboob. Go to Victoria's Secret and get measured! You may not buy their bras (I find them to be cheap quality despite the price) but at least know your size. I actually buy my underwear from I was a 34DD at one point and Vicky didn't carry my size, which is why I went and scoped this site out. Bare Necessities has every single size imaginable and brands from Calvin, DKNY, to Betsey Johnson. Additionally, don't wear jeans that you can't sit in or shoes that haven't been broken in. It just makes you look silly.

If you ignore all my advice, just remember that you attracted the guy in whatever you were wearing at the time, so continue to allow your wardrobe to be an expression of you, not Karen or Megan Fox or Nicki Minaj or your best friend with the great breasts. Do you.

Photo credits:
"Childhood Flames" exceptional fashion/photography blog
"The Muff Stit Shop" a Euro brand, purchase this and other items
"Blue & Cream" features Lily Allen

Sunday, March 14, 2010

The things I am afraid of

My mother
was sick.
She was always sick
she ended sick – a skeletal figure in a nursing home bed
she weighed as much as a ten year old child, her flesh hung loosely
slipping and detached from the bone
she was withering, evaporating, disappearing

Closed casket

She may have been born sick
I don’t know
but by the time I knew her she was sick
she used to flip
she used to be another woman, sometimes. Only sometimes.
When she was angry, she was not my mother
she was evil and hateful, in a way that was uncontrolled.
She was spiteful. Showed favoritism. And my brother got it the worst.

She used to hurt my father
it was clear she hated him, sometimes
from behind a bedroom door we heard violence
I don’t know who was hurting who, but I’m almost sure he was restraining her.
He’d walk out crying, defeated, Bible in hand
“I’m going for a walk,” he’d tell us. He was going to talk to Jesus about the crazy
wife He gave him

She used to stand by the window
the sun warming the tones of her face
she was talking, out loud and under her breath
discussing. Her eyes expressive, her brow dancing up and down
do not disturb her. She wouldn’t hear you anyway if you called her while she and she
were discussing.
So when you saw her by the window, you let her be.

My mother was a beautiful and epic catastrophe
She was volcanic : erupting then cool
but in her sanity she loved immensely.

I am afraid to be like her
I’m afraid that if my thoughts are not like yours then they are like hers
I’m afraid to die the withering body
who left a husband and children who are yet too afraid of her, to ever completely love her back.

Tuesday, March 9, 2010

Crymax and Other Sexual Expletives


My cousin introduced me to this term. It's when the orgasm is so good you start crying. On one occasion I had actual tears in my eyes and that nut is unforgettable, but typical a perfect orgasm will have me whimpering. Most recently I crymaxed from the sticky fingers, and that was a bit embarrassing, but I haven't made sexy in kind of (not really) a long time.

The crymax is kind of funny, because I can imagine some of the sounds that women make just trip you guys out. I let out my feeble whimper and kid with the fingers gave me a confused look. I think he needed to look in my face for affirmation that he was not, in fact, finger raping me.

What is the crymax? Its when the penis, or the fingers, fills you with so much bliss that you don't have enough physical reactions at your disposal to absorb the pleasure so you let out tears. They are tears of joy, trust, but they are never the less tears.

Why, woman? Why are you crying? If we could, we would sing like porn stars rather than grunt and cry. We can't help it, and sometimes we - I - practice in secret, in the shower, and during masturbation. I would love to moan pretty, but when you're feeling the sexy a few tears here and there are actually a good thing.

Similar to the crymax is the gigglegasm (still working on a name). Again, it's induced by an orgasm so spectacular that you let out a laugh. I've gigglegasmed when the multiplicity of the orgasm is becoming too great. The gigglegasm often occurs just before my clitoris has to beg for the sex (usually the head when this happens) to cease.

Man the noises we make during sex, it's embarrassing. Sometimes I want to hear what other women scream during sex so I can gage just how (ab)normal I am. For instance, why is it that I cannot help taking God's name in vain during climax? I think I am at my most spiritual when staring into that white light that is orgasm. Once I accidentally said "Jesus," I was trying to avoid the use of the word God oddly enough, and I feel like that was an even worse offense against the cross.

When the sex is spectacular, it's difficult for a person to control what comes from her mouth, whether its "spank me Daddy, make it hurt" or "yes, yes, cum on my face," (I will not attest to ever requesting a facial, but had I done so, I was likely to have been superbly drunk). So gentlemen be sure not to rape a bitch, but when she starts crying, laughing, screaming bloody murder, or begging God to save her just indulge her. Spank her. Just wipe her tears away and deepen the stroke.

Friday, March 5, 2010

Intimacy Synthetic

Some people have sex to affect intimacy. I have long suspected, and now come to the full acceptance, that I often have sex to affect intimacy. I'm having a lonely spell, brought on in particular by the fact that I haven't had sex in nearly a month. A month is already a long time for me to go without sex, and I actually like this feeling. However, I also notice that my body still needs to be touched, and felt. I need to be held and caressed.

I'm currently listening to a one sad song on repeat. Geez, Karen, snap out of it.

You may not know but this monthmarks a lot for me. It marks the first anniversary of the blog. It marks the anniversary of my short hair cut. It also marks a new attitude about life that I had taken one year ago. I dumped the fat man in January and started fucking around immediately. I was sexually liberated, making up for lost time, enjoying more orgasms in the last year than the whole entire time with my ex-boyfriend (no shade?). I enjoyed my sexual activity, and have a short list of regrets - about 4 inches a piece, short. However, I've come to a point where I don't want to barter my pussy for a little cuddle time.

Boys, be honest. You don't like to just cuddle. You don't like to just relax. You don't like to just watch a movie. You don't like to just sit in a room together having a conversation. But these are things that women - or just I - need. The secret to dating is in these things here. Pay attention.

Dating doesn't happen in the formality of it all. First dates are like interviews, they're inauthentic and horrifying. You get to know someone through the way they interact: by listening to the way they talk to their mother, by how they command a group of people, by the way they conduct themselves in an assembly, by the way they leave you feeling even though they never even spoke to you. It is in a person's interactions that we come to meet them. Not, in that formal interview where two people sit across from each other asking mundane questions just to fill time. Dating is getting to understand someone, not through the identity they choose to present you, but with the one they haphazardly exude amongst their peers.

The problem with attending conservative single sex schools (as I do), is that most interaction between the genders is either highly formal or completely sexual. The only safe space for a woman entering the all-male space is in a class, a meeting, or with her gay friend. Otherwise, her interaction is expected to be sexual. Don't believe me? Why is it that every guy I ever chilled with asked me "why not" when I told them we weren't having sex (and this is before I became known as the sex-blogger). Experiences like those always end in frustration for me, because I should never have to justify why I'm not fucking.

My solution to this irksome situation is now to have people over the house. If I have a crush on a guy, I invite him to hang at the house with a bunch of friends. I create neutral environment, where I can witness his interaction with my friends as well as experience his personality. This is dating, to me. It's similar to the way parents would say, "bring him over, I want to meet him." You create a situation where there isn't that sexual tug of war, and you can see just what the boy is like.

I have yet to find a boyfriend, or even a "boo" type situation, and periodically I feel as though I need one. I know I don't, but I think you can understand the way it feels when your body craves the feeling of someone's heat beside you, your mind desires to solve someone else's problems, and your soul wishes to conjoin with that of another. What to do? Wait to find someone to hold you? Shack up with someone and beg him to stay the night? Convert to homosexuality?

I think there are many women like me, who are so frustrated by the absence of intimacy and sincerity, that we're willing to trade pussy for a little time in the presence of another body. Its a beautiful feeling waking up in someone else's bed, washing the scent of someone else from your body in someone else's shower.

What will little Karey do? I stroke my pussy, scroll through my phone and wish I had someone willing to cuddle. Truthfully, I did consider fucking someone tonight, just so I could sleep in his tiny twin dorm room bed, just so we could devise a plan to sneak me out when no one was looking, just for a moment of synthetic intimacy.

photo credit: Yijun Liao