Last week, I had the option of moving back to California, or up to Seattle. I mean, I have the option all the time, but last week it looked like a really attractive, viable solution to a real problem I had. And so I called Arlette and The Bexter and all of the people I call in times like those, when I have a major decision to make and I can’t figure my way out of it. They were puzzled by my reluctance to leave. I have talked about moving out of Portland before, sometimes wistfully. They’re used to hearing me bitch about this town.
And so I explained how it’s been feeling like everything is starting to fall into place here. And I can’t leave just when it’s starting to get good. I cited the publishers that are sniffing around my book idea, and the impending t-shirts I’m going to make and sell with Brianna from Tender Loving Empire. And the cute boy who’s been flirting with me lately.
And all of those things are real. Sans the boy. Last night the flirtation I thought I was having came to a screeching halt when I tried to take him up on some of his intonations. And so I spent the better part of this morning moaning in hung-over shame. “Why? Why did you think he actually liked you?” I viciously whispered to myself as I stomped around my apartment. “You’re still in Portland. He’s cute. And he flirts with you constantly. Why did you think that you were going to get some make-out?” My cats looked a little frightened by the stomping, and then started making out. Again.
See how Tigger's about to plant his face in Chester's A-hole? Yeah, that's his happy place. He has a special sigh for when he hits it just right.
I don’t know what is going on in my life. Everything is opposite. My gay cats have started to have orgies, while they perch on top of me. The other night, Tigger sat delicately on top of my room-mate Patrick’s chest, and Chester ran over, and lovingly started to lick Tigger’s balls. Patrick noticed that they were doing it on top of him, but he’s gotten used to it, so he just kept watching tv. This gay-cat-sex thing has become a constant. They are no longer two separate cats. They are now just one long gay porn. And I’m surrounded by cunt-teases.
So, last night, I made an ass out of myself by assuming that a cute boy who has been flirting with me with increasing intensity wanted to make out with me. And today I feel bad. Not because I was rejected, but because I feel like for weeks, I’ve been sculpting this beautiful and amazing penis out of clay, and I was just getting the kiln all fired up, so that I could glaze it, to make it hardened, so that I could use said beautiful penis for future friends-with-benefits fun. Right? And last night, just as I was trying to put the penis in the kiln, some stupid Portland boy wrenched it out of my hand, and dropped it on the floor. And when I bent down to pick it up, it was all smooshed and flat, and it didn’t even look like a penis anymore. And I realized that I’d been trying to make a working dick out of shit. Not clay.
That’s how I feel.
Because rejection honestly doesn’t bother me. And if last night had been a simple rejection, I would have been fine. But as soon as I was like “You know how you tried to slip your hand in my bra earlier? Yeah, let’s do it on purpose this time”. This particularly beautiful boy came up with a string of reasons why that was a bad idea. And I found myself mired in bullshit excuses. When he probably meant “I like flirting with you, but you’re not really my type.” Or something. Who knows? But he couldn’t find the words to say it, and I was drunk and completely confused. Usually when boys stick their hands down your bra, you can milk that sort of situation for more action. But this is Portland. In this place, boys don’t have casual sexual encounters with women that they want to continue to be friends with. Boys here date. Because they’re sad. Not only are they sad, they have a lot of other feelings, that are hard to untangle. And sex just makes them feel more things. So they can’t have it unless they mean it…. and if they do try to have it casually, they cry. Seriously. That has happened to me more than three times since I’ve moved here.
I know this. I know all of this. But the flirting was so exciting. And so testosterone-y. And everything else seemed to be looking up. And so I got carried away, hoping and wishing that I was finally going to find a friend to fill my Vagina.
And like I said, things are going well in my life. They’re just not going well inside my Vagina.
Fortunately, there’s a solution to this kind of conundrum. It’s called a Vibrator. I haven’t had any fancy money for things like Vibrators for the last four years or so. So I’ve been rotating through the 6-7 old ones I have rattling around in the Happy Box. And since I’ve started my sad rotation, I’ve thrown a couple of vibrator funerals. I finally had to say good-bye to my first vibrator- a present my best friend Emily gave me when I moved in with the last man I had a serious relationship with. His name was Mark. And he was terrible in bed. It was a smart gift, Emily. You totally outdid yourself. And, not only that, it was classy how you put it into a box that held your checks, and gave it to me in front of my parents, and our friends. I don’t think a single person realized what you’d given me.
Ten years later, I haven’t had a relationship since, but I have had a really hard time getting rid of that vibrator. Even after the motor died. And I realized that it’s flesh tone looked a little… wrong.
So, I was delighted when It’s My Pleasure called me to ask if they could carry Snarky Cards! And even more delighted when I went into their store! I’ve been meaning to go to It’s My Pleasure since I moved to this town. It’s a sex-positive vibrator store. Portland’s answer to Good Vibrations, if you will. Which is rad, because I grew up thinking that Good Vibrations was the best standard with which to judge a Vibrator store. And when I got to Portland, I couldn’t find Good Vibrations. I could, however, find Fantaseyland. Which is not a sex-positive sex-toy store. It’s the kind of place where creepy guys jack-off in the back room, while you stare at the big-breasted women looking at you wickedly from the inside of the packages of vibrating fun.
It’s My Pleasure is found on Sandy and 63rd ave, in a cute little white house. The porch creaks in a nice way, and there’s coffee and tea, waiting for you inside. A giant black cat, Lucifer, loiters on the porch, demanding attention from everyone who walks through the door. It’s the kind of place where you can find the tasteful Kama Sutra, and pretty butt-plugs. If you have a question, Brandy is happy to help you. But she’s just as happy to let you browse by your lonesome. Either way, you’re not going to avoid eye-contact with other customers, or worry about someone offering you $20 for a handjob, while you try to figure out if you want just Clitoral stimulation, or some G-spot action too. And now, they also have Snarky Cards!
While I was there, I shopped and I found a new Vibrator, to soothe my angry, lonely Vagina. It’s called Little Kiss. And after the first time I used it, I thought about starting a new religion dedicated to using Little Kiss. It’s that good. I think once you try it, you’ll join my new religion. It felt like gentle, tireless fingers, working their hardest to give me orgasms, over and over.
So, I’d like to dedicate my latest painting to the boys of Portland. It’s one of my most popular cards. My friend Kay wrote it. And I’ve always thought it was mean, because feelings are important. But I’m feeling it now!
