Something to think about

Other than the actual column turned into a book "Sex and the City" I have never liked Candice Bushnell's books.  I think they are often too preoccupied with status and instead of psyche.  Of course, I am guilty of adoring snarkiness too.  Gawker, while condescending and obnoxious at times does a great job of pointing out the holes in arguments- even exploiting them.  

Sex is so much the same.  Relationships- at least in the beginning- are built on this.  We are concerned with status and who we appear to be--rather than what we actually are.  I thought Candice Bushnell made a great statement (via Gawker via Elle):

"A lot of [sexual] behavior is dictated less b gender and more by money, status, and power.  Actresses in Hollywood have always had a lot of sex secretly.  Why?  Because they can.  Because they're not reliant on a man to provide a roof over their head.  That changes your sexual behavior.  Because if you're looking for a man to provide for you, you don't want to be seen as a woman who sleeps around.  Men object to it because you're not viewed as wife material."

Read the whole Gawker post

A Canal for Cinderella

If Cinderella was written today she might be a working woman; she would be a slave to her profession, not completely innocent but not quite yet a cynic either. She would be beautiful but unattainable and naturally men would still be baffled--her prince charming merely a myth. And instead of her shoe gracefully left behind, this time she would be in possession of something he left behind. Would she choose to pursue him? Or, would she still wait, albeit calculated, for him to come to her?

Like Cinderella, I've found myself in the unfamiliar. A new city, new culture, new people, and well, new dating rules to learn. Even the 'foreigners' I've met seemed to have gracefully mastered this new culture, easily playing along. In my first few weeks in Amsterdam I met a few different guys--none of them Dutch-- whom I didn't feel overwhelmingly attracted to but interested in enough to be slightly miffed when each time a fun, flirtatious night led to nothing. As for the Dutch ones, I had heard a few different things about them-- they don't ask woman out they've just met, they are cheap, they are often snobby, and lack passion--that I wasn't too eager to find out for myself.

Nevertheless, after making a few fun Dutch girlfriends I began to naturally surround myself with more Dutch people and frequent those bars that only locals know about and those same ones you are always relieved to have finally found. And despite all the rumors, I found that Dutch people were a lot of fun! One Sunday, after two previously late nights, a friend called me from a loud bar insisting that I make my way to the hip and tendy de Pijp area (where we had a been a few nights earlier) because a group of guys we met that same night were there and asking for me. Some what reluctantly and in my jeans and Converse sneakers I headed over.

It was only 7:30pm but it could have been midnight from the looks of the scene I fell upon. A mix between an American summer B.B.Q. and a chic bohemian Parisian bar, people spilled out of the bar and onto the cobblestone street, all laughing and yelling to one another (in Dutch would is not nearly as elegant as French). Inside, the bar was packed--streamers, which probably once hung from the ceiling now decorated the crowd and everywhere you looked people were smiling and dancing, greeting you as they passed by. My girlfriend was right in the middle of it with the same group we had been with before but within 15 minutes of my arrival she grabbed me a told me we were heading to another party.

We piled into a few different cars and headed towards what I expected to be another laid back but fun bar. What I didn't expect was to find myself queuing for a large club all the way across town. When we arrived, I was mortified-- I was wearing tennis shoes! I didn't think there was any way the bouncers would let me in amongst all the others who were dressed to the nines. The guys only laughed when I told them my fear, remarking that this wasn't Paris. Surprisingly, the bouncer barely blinked as he let me through with the rest. However, I am sure it helped that we didn't so much as queue as we did pass through to the VIP line and up to the large balcony reserved for a few tables.

Once inside my friend and I settled in quite easily-- she hadn't dressed for the occasion either and we laughed: we sensed that it was going to be one of those completely random nights where you end up having a fantastic time. Sipping champagne, I began chatting right away with one of the guys who was undeniably cute (which I should note I was completely attracted to) and who I had met previously. As the night wore on, he and I spoke often. He was flirtatious and fun but it wasn't until we began talking about sex that things began to change. He, like a number of guys I've met and even dated, found a fascination in discussing swingers clubs and I played along, enjoying the attention. Later on the dance floor he grabbed me and kissed me. I was hooked. But I wasn't intending to let him know that either. We flirted and kissed often throughout the night and I was over joyed by his fascination with me.

Around midnight, my friend and I with my new found flirt and his friend all decided to leave-- where we were initially headed I am not quite sure but the four of us soon found ourselves back at my apartment on the roof terrace. Eventually my flirt and I were in my bedroom enjoying more than just each others lips. But like Cinderella, the clock would strike the hour when the pumpkin would return. Of course, it is important to point out that a future in any real relationship sense of the word was out-- he was a complicated individual with what is probably best described as baggage. And he certainly wasn't looking (or had indicated at least) for anything more than fun sex, which I was up for. So, we had preview sex and after he and is friend left I resolved that if all it would be was preview sex (which was GREAT) then I was pretty satisfied.

But of course the shoe was left behind--or in this case a belt. If prince charming had left an article of clothing behind I am sure Cinderella would have shrugged and say, so? I found it amusing-- until the messages, which began as funny and odd left me over analyzing the situation. According the story, Prince Charming knew what he had to do-- find the girl whose shoe was left on his door step and marry her. Cinderella had no idea. Amongst the seedy red light district and promiscuous behavior, I normally would have thought of it as a souvenir. My flirt needed it back.

A week of amusing but slightly irritating messages between myself and his friend led me to believe the night was cheap. I was the bystander in the entire conquest made more obvious by the fact that I had to return the belt to someone else.

With a Bang

After hearing about this "party of the year" for a few holiday seasons, I finally made it home in time to attend the fête that my sister had always bragged about and I was excited: gorgeous house in the hills of New Hampshire, hockey players, investment bankers, doctors, lawyers--some of them even single--and lots and lots of free alcohol. The perfect recipe for a great party. Despite the jet-setting I had previously embarked on before landing in Vermont for the holidays, my sister was a professional party attendee and I knew this party had to be great if she said so.

I was 99% sure this party would be fabulous. The remaining 1% was hesitation: I hadn't actually attend a swanky party in the hills of New Hampshire before (or to mention it, anywhere in New England), but it certainly seemed like it would be full of city folk who did the whole ski scene in the beautiful hills of New England. I dressed to impress.

My little black dress, sky-high heels, and fabulous crown lent to me by my sister who had recently been crowned Mrs. Vermont, seemed like the perfect ensemble for the holiday affair. It was cold that night and about two feet of fresh snow made the drive up the mountain-esque road breath-taking. Along with my sister, her husband and another male friend of theirs joined as as we drove up together joking and laughing. Their friend, Mike was a fun guy but not someone I was attracted to or someone I was all that interested in. His personal situation was messy-- a wife he was un-interested in but stayed together with for their young daughter. Not something I wanted to really get involved in.

Once I noticed the dripping boots and ski jackets pilled in the entry way, I should have known from the moment we arrived that the party would be less like the fabulous and crazy crowd I had imagined. Walking into to the large kitchen, which opened into the lovely living room groups of people were scattered around quietly speaking. Immediately I realized I was slightly over-dressed and could tell the tiara perched on the top of my head wouldn't be nearly as appreciated as I had hoped.

In fact, I felt for an instant as if I had walked into a party in high school at which I probably didn't really belong. I had never been apart of the in crowd then and the few times I did show up I couldn't help but feel mostly awkward and out of place because I wasn't all that sure how to act. Most of the woman in the room were wearing conservative outfits-- lumpy sweaters and and awful shoes. Just as I was about to ask my sister what she saw in this crowd, she handed me a large glass of wine and simply instructed me to "drink". Perhaps she felt the same strange tension.

After a glass of wine, however, I began to relax and even tried to engage in a conversation with Mike and another woman. I didn't want to appear snobby but as a commented on the story he was telling, she looked at me as if I just spoke French. It wasn't hard to tell how the crowd divided: married couples and slightly desperate woman looking for the perfect Christmas story to one day tell their future children. I was clearly an obstacle to those goals. I shrugged it off happily knowing the details of Mike's life--he was all hers.

The rest of the party flashed by in a drunken daze. I had never thought of myself as the girl who crashes a party. Yes, I felt attractive and flirty that night but I never imagined that I would be considered a threat especially amongst a crowd I didn't know nor would ever see again. Looking back, I felt insecure because I wasn't accustom to the ways of the mid-thirties woman. I was a little intimated by them at first but in all honesty slightly bored of even the men after a while. So, I drank to make up for the lack of substance the party had to offer.

That was the lethal combination of the night: frustration and desire. I wanted to find someone great to have a nice time with and I also needed it to be a great party. I thought that alcohol would make it better and in some ways it did. Until I woke up the next morning to find myself naked in bed.

The rest of the night came flooding back like a bad dream. Dirty martinis, flirtatious moments with Mike, the hotel room, the stranger utterances I was calling out as we apparently had sex and then the next morning--awake, alone and mortified. After dragging myself home and showering off the strange and slightly disastrous night I began to think that even if I hadn't qualified myself as desperate like the other woman from the party ultimately I had only proved my own desperation. No, I wasn't desperate for the same story book ending I had assumed they were after but my need to feel desired and liked-- the type of girl I looked down at when I was at those parties in high school and the type of girl I swore I would never be--just to fit in.