The Over-Educated Nympho

Long ago I said that I want to write a novel called RAW. That is still a long ways from being done (damn my day job, damn it deep to the pits of hell–although I love my 401k), however many of you have said it would be cool if I published a book of blog posts. I think I found a way to make that happen.

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It is 11:30 on a Saturday night and I’m in my underwear on the couch in my apartment. ALONE in case that wasn’t shit-yourself obvious. I’m sitting here typing this with a glass of $5.99 wine and a half-eaten bag of Oreos on the coffee table next to me. This was not the night I had imagined. After I finish writing this post, I’ll probably watch an episode of Sex and the City, glare at my unused landing strip, and go to bed.

I debated whether to write this post or not. For a second I considered lying and just saying “the party sucked so I left,” but the fact that I wanted to hide my embarrassment that badly is all the more reason to ‘fess up and write about it.

Here’s what happened:

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I wrote this over a month ago but didn’t publish it. I’m not sure why. –insert some sort of really obvious statement here that I’m oblivious to–

While at work yesterday afternoon I checked my cell phone for a text message I was expecting from Sweetie Pie about the night’s plans. Instead of a text I saw that I had a voice mail. Hmm, normally Sweetie Pie calls me at work if she needs to talk.. I dialed my voicemail. It was Stockton, my writing mentor.

I damn near dropped the phone. He doesn’t call very often. We’re writers, we don’t speak. We do email. What the–?
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I disappeared for the Memorial Day weekend. As much as I would love to say I spent three days at the pool in a bikini with a pitcher of margaritas at my side, I would be lying. It HAD TO FUCKING RAIN. EVERY AFTERNOON. And then today? When I’m back at work? Beautiful! Ooooh I’m shaking my fist at you, Mr. Sun. Don’t make me give you something to cry about, bitch, BECAUSE I WILL.

The crappy weather however made for a convenient excuse to get a lot of work done on my infant novel. I spent three days buried under a pile of papers, files, books, and journals–and it was fantastic. Although the deep caverns of my own psyche were a tad scary. Apparently I use sex as a weapon against mankind. Huh.*

Back to regular postings tonight.

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*Oh my god, sooooo kidding. I already knew that.

Many of you commend me for being so honest on my blog. I’ve written once before about how I have to be so open here to make up for how closed-off and distanced I am in person, even with very close friends. Many of you say that you feel like you know me so well after reading me for a couple weeks or even a couple days. And I love that, I do, but sometimes I feel like I’m only telling half the truth because even on the blog there are things I have to hide. Out of vanity? self-preservation? embarrassment? I don’t know.

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This is the third iteration in my Nympho Statement. They are different every time. Long. Just because you’re born a nympho it doesn’t mean you naturally know how to wear it. But now? Now I wear it with ease. Which is why my latest Nympho Statement is one of the shortest posts I’ve ever published.

I am a nympho. I always have been, and always will be. A lot of people don’t get that.

This is about me and my sexuality, my sensuality, the fucking essence of who I am. This is not a “slut” thing or an identity issue or an intellectual matter. It’s just me, pure and raw.

No apologies.

Raw. Its many definitions, the word itself–so short, simple, the crude gaping of the mouth–have fascinated me for ages. The sense of being natural, unrefined, gritty. It’s the grit that you can sink your teeth into. Pretty polished things don’t take kindly to teeth marks.

Raw is what you get when you strip away all the crap like proper grammar, ironed clothing, fear of saying how you feel–being afraid to feel at all. It’s how you were before you were taught to hold your fucking tongue.

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I’m not going to lie. After I saw Dr. $300, I was a bit shaken up. Even though I’m not bipolar, the fact that it occurred to him (and many of you readers too.. I’ve gotten lots of “are you SURE you aren’t bipolar?” emails over the last month) is unsettling. Sure I can joke that wouldn’t it be great to have manic stages to offset the depression, think of how much writing and fucking I could accomplish! BRING ON THE MANIA! But I’d be lying to myself.

It bothers me because with each mental what the fuck of depression, ADHD, whatever the hell other neurological demons are being unearthed, I feel that much more… distanced? Not normal? I dunno, SCREWED?

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This post is the complete list of goals from what I started earlier. The intention is to think about your grandest and most intimate dreams. In all honesty I don’t think most of mine are that far-fetched. I have every intention of doing my damndest to make each of them happen–even if it takes forty years.

Defining my goals has been on my mind for quite some time, especially over the last year after I looked at my life and finally admitted to myself this isn’t what I want. Recently my writing mentor Stockton and a couple writing-savvy readers here have started challenging me to get serious about my goals–to approach my future as a writer, not as someone who wants to be a writer.

I’m republishing the first half of my goals here for the sake of continuity, but note the new stuff starts at #6:

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Last weekend I checked my email and found this from a writing mentor-turned-friend of mine:

Subject: Just a thought….

Vix,

How are you? Anyway, quick thought…. I think you should look at all your old journals and piece together the compelling novel of all that has brought you to THIS exact point. Email me tonight. Keep it comin’ kiddo. You really are going to be a star.

Best,

Stockton

Just a thought?! JUST A THOUGHT?!!! “Just a thought” won’t keep me awake tonight! “Just a thought” doesn’t make me wet in my happy place! “Just a thought” doesn’t… it… I…. won’t… it… it… IT DOESN’T LEAVE ME SPEECHLESS LIKE THIS.

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Years ago when I first moved to New York City for a one-year internship, I imagined renting a small yet glorious apartment on the top floor of a beautiful brownstone. My room would overlook a quiet yet busy street where I would set up my computer, stare out the window, and write brilliant things every night.

Instead I got a shitty run-down studio overlooking a courtyard which held nothing but thrown out furniture and metal trash cans covered in muddy snow. My apartment was so small that the one exterior wall had only two windows. One housed the window unit (a necessity, hands down), the other was covered with a huge iron fire escape gate to keep out intruders. As if the fire escape said intruder was climbing up wouldn’t plummet to the ground under his weight.

Not exactly the glamorous Carrie Bradshaw/ Sex And The City scene I was expecting.

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