...I Was A Teenage Fag-Hag

The story of a NYU student struggling to survive in a world where the shoes are pricey, the IDs are fake, and straight men don't seem to exist.
Thursday, April 18, 2002
I am suffering from the worst insomnia of my life right now. I think sleep deprivation is already shutting down certain functions of my brain, like the ability to focus on faraway objects and speak in complete sentences. I finished my paper for film class at about 3:30 AM and tried to go to sleep, but instead of drifting off into happy oblivion, I lay there with a crashing headache and all sorts of jumbled thoughts racing through my head. Really, when was the last time I thought about Alan, and the time he gasped, "Beautiful woman!" as he came? Months ago, I'm sure. But that, and wondering if glueing suede to the inside of my Romanellis would keep them from giving me blisters, and other random stuff kept me awake for hours. I finally gave up and IM'd Alisha, who was awake and studying due to her fucked-up sleep schedule. We sat outside the building and smoked for a while, which was disorienting because it was daylight and people were out jogging and walking their dogs when all I wanted to do was go to sleep. The Mexican building custodian with the white mustache sternly told me to throw my butts down the grate instead of onto the sidewalk.

I just talked to Jackie on IM for the first time in ages. One advantage of being awake at sunrise is that I get to catch up with my friend in New Zealand, where they seem to operate on some Never-Never Land calendar which I don't understand, but it basically boils down to us never being awake at the same time. She sent me a picture of her with her boyfriend - was it mean to say that she looks exactly the same as I remember her from 8th grade? I didn't intend it in a bad way. "We've been together for almost 3 months now.. crazyness.. its real amazing." I'm kind of jealous, as I am of everyone I know in actual functional relationships. I guess there are sometimes amazing amounts of crazyness going on in my life too, just not of the romantic sort.

I'm not listening to any music because of my headache, but if I was it would be The Ramones, "I Wanna Be Sedated."

Wednesday, April 17, 2002
Music: Dusty Springfield, "You Don't Own Me"
Feeling: Smug
Paper: Finished!!!

Too bad I'm so strung out on ephedrine that I won't be able to sleep tonight... I guess that's the price I pay for being able to study until the morning light while simultaneously burning fat. Silly me.

Tuesday, April 16, 2002
Ahh... Back from the Bobst (otherwise known as the library, to those of you who don't attend NYU). After having dinner with Scott in the dining hall, I followed his example and continued my virtuous streak of studying by sitting in an eerily quiet room filled with cubicles and taking notes for about four hours. The smell of other people's stress combined with a hard wooden chair bruising my tailbone must be conducive to work.

I had yet another encounter with a random stranger when I took a shortcut through the park on my way home. He insisted on showing me his ID before bumming two cigarettes and giving me exactly sixteen cents in return, admitting that he was searching his pockets for change as an excuse to keep talking to me. He said I was beautiful and he was impressed that I was wearing a Jordache shirt (I wasn't). Maybe I should institute a new rule: No More Talking To Strangers. My reluctance to reject people even prevents me from telling creeps on the street to fuck off - looking disinterested and responding only in monosyllables is apparently too subtle. I learned how to "walk like a New Yorker" back in September; now I need to "walk like a New Yorker without stopping to talk to strangers."

Monday, April 15, 2002
A gorgeous spring day in NYC! I slept through my morning lecture as usual, and after class spent the remainder of the afternoon in the park basking under the sun. I even did 100 pages of reading about the Classic era of Maya civilization, while studiously ignoring the over-friendly bum who wanted to give me a hug. Yech. At least he didn't tell me I look like Farrah Fawcett, which a crazy old man actually did a few days ago. Strangest compliment ever. Dave called and cancelled our dinner date for tomorrow night because he has class, which was something of a relief even though I pretended to be disappointed. I really need to work on my two papers due on Thursday anyway.

I had a long talk with Bekah on IM last night about my fucked-up weekend. Even though she goes to school in California now, she's become my main confidante in matters I've decided are too personal to share with my floormates. Or maybe it's because she lives far away - I can safely assume that nothing I tell her will get back to any of my friends at NYU or in Seattle. My supposed best friend from home, Cortney, never calls me anymore, so at this point she's so clueless about what's going on in my life that I would have to give her an hour of background information before talking about any of my problems. Which is fine, really... she's always been totally non-sympathetic when I ask for advice or when I just need someone to listen to my issues. We promised that we'd always be best friends, blah blah blah, but it seems that our relationship is not one that can survive over distance, at least not if she never answers her cell phone.

Under Bekah's expert guidance (she was in a similar situation a few months ago), I decided that to preserve my sanity there will be no sex with anyone for the rest of the semester, regardless of whether or not I'm involved with them now. This especially applies to Dave but will be kind of difficult in his case, which is why I was so relieved I won't be seeing him this week.

Vivian: But how do I explain to Marine Boy, for instance, why I won't have sex with him anymore if I still like him?
Bekah: do you really like him?
Vivian: I do
Vivian: I just don't want him to be my boyfriend.
Bekah: then just date
Bekah: you don't have to fuck again
Vivian: yeah
Bekah: just drag out the dating until the end of the school year
Bekah: if he says something, then just say that you were moving faster than you would like, and have to slow down.
Vivian: good plan
Bekah: ;-)
Vivian: he invited me to some formal dance at the academy in august
Vivian: But I can't go, because I'll be in seattle
Bekah: he wants you to be serious?
Vivian: yeah, I think so
Vivian: He introduced me to his friends
Bekah: well, then definitely don't fuck him
Vivian: right
Bekah: get a tattoo
Vivian: of that?
Bekah: lol

...And now, back the the Maya.

Sunday, April 14, 2002
I seem to have knack for getting myself into trouble. Not the scary or hazardous kind of trouble, just strange situations that I never expect to end up in, but always do. Take last night for example: Annemiek, Alisha and I dressed up and went on a man-hunt to Madame X, a little bar on Houston Street with decor remniscent of a bordello. Red lamps, velvet couches, etc. The bar itself was cute and the music was good, but all the singles who apparently populate the place had already found someone to chat up. We agreed that next time we'll show up earlier in the evening, before the men have all been ensared by the competition. We had one Cosmo each, then walked out into another random New York rain shower. I took cool twisted martini glass with me for my collection - I'm trying to get together a full set of glasses, all from different bars, so next year when I'm an alcoholic sophomore and drinking gin in front of my laptop I can choose one from whichever establishment fits my mood.

Both of my friends went straight to sleep when we got back to our dorm, but I went back outside to have one last cigarette before bedtime. As I was standing outside the building, a group of semi-drunken people who looked approximately my age came up and begged for a cigarette, which I unfortunately could not give them because I'd had to scrounge for the one I had. One of the guys lingered behind the rest of the group to talk to me for a little while, and tried to persuade me to go to a bar with him and his friends. I said, "Well... are you going to buy me a drink?" He agreed, introduced himself as Brad, and off we went. We headed up towards Union Square, but by the time we got to 14th Street most of his friends had decided to go home, leaving just the two of us and his roommate to make our way to the Belmont Lounge. My worries that my ID would be rejected turned out to be unfounded when the bouncer barely glanced at it, making it a good night for underage drinking - I didn't have a problem earlier at Madame X either. The roommate quickly managed to pick up a cute blonde girl who was sitting at a nearby table, said his goodbyes, and disappeared out the door with her. All in the space of about twenty minutes... impressive.

It became clear early on that this guy is not a student like me, and that he's definitely not on a student budget. He's 25, and although he was reluctant to talk about it at first, he's on an investment-banking career track. I can't remember how we figured this out, but the firm he works for deals with my dad's company whenever they come to New York! It's strange to contemplate that this guy might have sat in a conference room with my father, especially considering what happened later on. We sat at a corner table and just talked and chain-smoked for a long time (he'd stopped to buy Parliaments on the way), while I sipped on free gin and tonics and he worked on a Stoli on the rocks. I don't know if he was drunk or if he's always so outgoing, but he was really fun to talk to and there was never an uncomfortable lull in the conversation, which was surprising since we'd just met randomly on the street. He's not hot or anything, but maybe a little good-looking in a boyish (and slightly pudgy) way, plus he has a nice style. My intention was to just hang out with him for a while, then thank him for the drinks and give him my phone number.... but that's not exactly what happened. For some reason I felt very comfortable and safe around him, and it was obvious that he didn't pick me up with the intention of getting me trashed and taking advantage of me - he just likes to have new people to talk to. I can't blame this on being drunk, because I only had a total of three drinks last night, spread out over several hours. Anyway, his apartment was only five blocks away (on Park Avenue... nice), so around four in the morning we left the bar and went there to hang out. We sat and watched bits and pieces of Gladiator while we talked about more random topics, until eventually the mood shifted... and... yeah. I'm sure I don't need to go into explicit detail - suffice to say that he may not be hot, but he sure is good in bed.

While I was taking the walk of shame back from Gramercy it occurred to me that I'm not technically a slut. Sluts set out with the sole purpose of fucking someone, which I never do. Well, maybe I did in Mexico, but everyone knows that vacations are an exception to the rules sexual conduct. Instead, I get stuck in situations with men where it seems easier at the time to simply go along with it, because I'm incapable of rejecting someone who I like. I didn't really want to have sex with Brad, and I didn't intend to have sex with Dave either, but I really like them both and I have no idea how to explain to someone that they're basically on a waiting list. So instead of finding the right words, I didn't say anything and just took my clothes off. This is how I ended up fucking three guys in nine days, and I think I'm about to have a nervous breakdown over the whole issue. My friend Ricky is constantly joking around that I'm a slut, but if he knew what really goes on in my life while everyone else sleeps he'd probably have a heart attack. Or come after me with a pitchfork. The really irritating thing about all this is that for once in my life I have more sex than I need, but I can't fully enjoy any of it because I'm too busy thinking about what a dirty whore I am. And even worse than that, the guy I like the most is on anti-depressants and can't get it up. I feel like all of this has to be a big joke - it just doesn't seem real.


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