“And when I get you off, babe Well you know it’s give and take.” Honey Honey

Hottie McHottie,aka Captain America didnt come to dinner with our group last weekend. I didnt ask why and his coworkers didnt offer but later, my girlfriend “T” reported that he was sitting at a table in front of her at dinner…with a very attractive woman. Not that I ever believed I had a chance but this stone-cold proof–him opting for dinner with a more attractive woman–still felt like a punch to the gut. Particularly since I”m trying to climb my way out of the pit of self-pity. Well, not actively climbing so much as clinging onto the sides, trying not to slip further.

I thought orgasms were supposed to release the GOOD endorphins but there I was, crying the moment I switched off the vibrator. Blame it on hormones or the full moon, but I hit that low when I realized that everyone I ‘use’ for my fantasies are either not available or just not interested.

A dear friend reminded me that “Any girl can be a mattress. Don’t be that girl…” But what if I WANT to be a mattress? What if I need to use someone as much as they need to use me? As adults, we should be able to communicate openly about matters of the heart and body and as long as there is no deceit, I’m with Justin Timberlake, “We should play tennis.” But it does get messy more often than not, doesn’t it? I try not to thik about “that” time two years ago. It was my first and only dabbling at ‘friends with benefits’, driven by this same lonely desperation and trusting that the person I was intimate with was truly a friend and would abide by the rules. That ended very, very badly. And then there was my January fling at a wedding with a groomsman and the bride consoling me a week later, patting my back, shaking her head, “You’re just not a one-night-stand kinda girl.”

Everyone that I am deployed with is married with kids and as if the constant pictorial slideshows of adorable toddlers in pink sparkley tu-tu’s and doe-eyed boys with missing teeth werent painful enough, I happen to be attracted to one of the dads. He’s kind and empathic and when I’m certain that my mask is firmly in place, all it takes is one concerned look from him and “Do you want to talk about it?” to bring the tears to the surface. What is there to talk about? He reminded me, “Happiness is a choice” and I agree. I know that I create my own Hell and choose to live in it. I’m just so goddamned lonely…

 And I do what many people, women in particular, do when they feel down: eat my feelings or go shopping. I’m limited on both being here so I chose the latter and jumped online: I purchased a pale blue pair of velvet dancing shoes and a ridiculously expensive bottle of french perfume. Frankly, it was only a matter of time on the perfume. I had been obsessing over it for weeks and was only looking for an excuse to pull the trigger.

 Yes, even in Afghanistan, I continue to wax my legs, paint my toenails and wear red lipstick to bed. I do it for me. Because it helps me feel “normal’ in an abnormal environment.

 But that was last weekend. At least The Honey Moon on Friday the 13th was calming. I anointed a white candle and a black candle with herb-infused olive oil, lit additional candles and incense and turned off the lights and the noisy air conditioner in my room. But instead of sitting quietly and meditating, I felt inspired to dance. A dear friend (I still have one or two left) recently answered my call for new music and sent me albums from Brody Dalle, Lykke Li, Peter Murphy and Roman Remains. Peter Murphy fit the mood. Barefoot and scantily clad in my “My Other Ride Is Your Face” t-shirt, I carefully maneuvered and wheeled around that 8×5 foot space. Cautious, thanks to an incident when I was 18 and dancing around my darkened dorm room on Tinker AFB. I misjudged the distance between my face and my bedframe and knocked out my front teeth. It was late on a Saturday night so naturally, the doctor on call at the base hospital suspected–and was surprised that booze had not been involved. I have a couple of false teeth as a souvenir and reminder that dancing with complete abandon can be dangerous in close quarters.

 This week, I ran into multiple people from my past starting with a CMSgt whom I served with during my second tour in Iraq. He introduced to the new Commander of my former squadron. I shook his hand and laughed, “I wish I could come home.” He replied, “So why don’t you?” Because the recruiter said “Why would we take a broken 30’something when we could have a healthy 18 year old?” And because I dont like going backwards. But I would prefer to die in blue…

Later, I spotted a familiar, unmistakable silhouette. He hadn’t changed a hair in the seven years since I last saw him. We served together during my first tour to Iraq, the “Invasion” in 2003. We were close once. Something about freezing in a tent while sandstorms raged for days or watching artillery streak past the wings of our plane do more to bond than “we had chemistry class together in college”.  It was wonderful to reconnect but I was acutely aware of the disparity between our circumstances. His decision to change paths was met with promotion, a remarkable career, and apparently a draught from the Fountain of Youth. In contrast, I’ve gained weight, aged visibly, and have nothing impressive to show for my choices. I envy him as much as I am ashamed of myself.

 But overall, it has been a trying week. I reached the point of ambivalence several weeks ago. “Flat-lining”, I call it. Life. Meh. Right now, I could take it or leave it. But will I feel any differently–any better–when I get home? No, not right away. Readjustment takes time.

But  in the spirit of ending abruptly and entirely off-topic, yes, I have been doodling vaginas on my male co-worker’s notebooks.

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Captain America

Before this latest trip to the ‘Stan, I watched Captain America: The Winter Soldier in theatres with my family. I come from a family of nerds although my Nerd-dom is firmly rooted in Sci-fi and High Fantasy (a-la Firefly and Game of Thrones, for instance) with a smattering of Benedict Cumberbatch because what fem-nerd doesnt love her some Benedict Cumberbatch?

I enjoy big screen comics when does well and Captain America was done VERY well. “Steve” was was the anti Tony Stark: all humility and old-fashioned naivete encased in the body of a demi-god. Even Thor doesnt compare. And then enters Black Widow. First, Scarlett Johansson is my lady-crush. She even bumped Monica Bellucci who had been my ultimate sex goddess for two decades. I wasnt overly keen of her flat-ironed washed out red hair in this movie but I desperately wanted to see her teach good ol’ Steve a lesson in chemistry. And she could have if she wanted to. He was ready although a faint protest of “Wait, shouldnt we get married first?” might escape his lips as she straddled his thighs.

As a whole, that movie affected me. I wandered out of it with the nagging though that ‘back in the day’, I could have done the splits in a painted-on black pleather body suit. A decade ago, I could have landed Captain America if I wanted him. What would it take to get back there, physically? Is it even possible?

And last night, as I was squirming self-consciously with Hottie McHottie next to me during a meeting, it hit me: He was my Captain America. Physical perfection, charm and wit. I can’t recall when or if I’ve ever wanted someone so badly. But I’m no Black Widow. Not anymore. And that thought made me very sad.

I passed a note to one of my coworkers “Crossfit 0630?” He nodded and mouthed “You coming?”. I nodded back. I was ready. Diet, exercise, whatever it takes to get my game back. I havent done any physical activity in months. Being in a neckbrace, I was forbidden to do anything for three months post-op. Then once I got to the ‘Stan, I figured I would need a couple weeks to adjust to the time change. Seven weeks later, I’m still exhausted from long hours at work but no more excuses. Crossfit would only short me 90 minutes of sleep. I need this more than I need sleep, I told myself.

I must have been anxious because I was wide awake by the time my alarm went off this morning. On the way to the gym, the guys high-fived me and congratulated me on joining the club.

My buzz was short-lived.

The warm-up was push-ups (which I had to do on my knees), pull-ups (which I couldnt do at all), squats (okay, got those), and a 400 meter dash. The dash did it. My throat closed up, my chest tightened and I realized too late that I had forgotten my inhaler. As the group moved on to overhead chest presses, I couldnt lift the bar. Just the bar, no weights added. And that was what they would be doing for the entire duration of the class. Something I could not physically do. I looked around for hand weights. In what world does the instructor NOT offer some exercise alternative for those who can’t keep up? Not in Crossfit world, apparently. I was embarrassed, feelng like a fool standing there wheezing. Defeated, I gathered up my belongings and wandered out of the gym.

Once back in my room, I sucked on my inhaler and wondered what do I do now? I need to lose weight. I need to get back in shape. I also need someone to stand nexty to me in the chow hall line and tell me to put down the potatoes. Or maybe just to utter the magic word–Captain America– when my motivation falters.

So not crossfit. But something else. It’s time.”

Smile and say “Penis!”

“Look at him. He’s actually very artistic.”

Me: “All he ever does is draw dicks and flash them at me during meetings.”

“Yeah, but he’s the Rembrandt of dick drawers.”

No, it’s not an out-take from “Superbad” but a real conversation I had at work.  It’s true though. Every man in here doodles dicks but this one in particular “further pushed the boundaries of this program by implementing new accessories to his phallic images such as butterfly wings, gym equipment, and aircraft parts.” (That last part will go on his plaque. Or his NCOER).

Thank g-d I have a girlfriend on this deployment. We meet for dinner at the chow hall most nights and talk about girl stuff. Like dicks.

My friend gives me advice on how to ‘hook up’ since I can count on one hand how many times Ive had sex in the last decade. And it’s MY own fault, she points out, for not ‘putting it out there.’

“If you got him alone and took off your clothes…you are a warm, willing vagina in shitty Afghanistan. He won’t turn you down.”

“But what if he does?”

“Then he’s gay and you move on to someone else. Someone hotter…”

My friend makes it sound fool-proof. Like all I have to do is walk up to Captain America and say, “My vagina is open for business. Now get on your knees.”

Actually, that sounds kind of hot.

But no, I won’t do that.

Maybe in 30 pounds.

I think I’m going to start doodling vaginas and flash them at co-workers at meetings.

 

 

Captain America

Before this latest trip to the ‘Stan, I watched Captain America: The Winter Soldier in theatres with my family. I come from a family of nerds although my Nerd-dom is firmly rooted in Sci-fi and High Fantasy (a-la Firefly and Game of Thrones, for instance) with a smattering of Benedict Cumberbatch because what fem-nerd doesnt love her some Benedict Cumberbatch?

I enjoy big screen comics when done well and Captain America was done VERY well. “Steve” was was the anti Tony Stark: all humility and old-fashioned naivete encased in the body of a demi-god. Even Thor doesnt compare. And then enters Black Widow. First, Scarlett Johansson is my lady-crush. She even bumped Monica Bellucci who had been my ultimate sex goddess for two decades. I wasnt overly keen of her flat-ironed washed out red hair in this movie but I desperately wanted to see her teach good ol’ Steve a lesson in chemistry. And she could have if she wanted to. He was ready although a faint protest of “Wait, shouldnt we get married first?” might escape his lips as she straddled his thighs.

As a whole, that movie affected me. I wandered out of it with the nagging thought that ‘back in the day’, I could have done the splits in a painted-on black pleather body suit. A decade ago, I could have landed Captain America if I wanted him. What would it take to get back there, physically? Is it even possible?

And last night, as I was squirming self-consciously with Hottie McHottie next to me during a meeting, it hit me: He was my Captain America. Physical perfection, charm and wit. But I’m no Black Widow. Not anymore. And that thought made me very sad.

I passed a note to one of my coworkers “Crossfit 0630?” He nodded and mouthed “You coming?”. I nodded back. I was ready. Diet, exercise, whatever it takes to get my game back. I havent done any physical activity in months. Being in a neckbrace, I was forbidden to do anything for three months post-op. Then once I got to the ‘Stan, I figured I would need a couple weeks to adjust to the time change. Seven weeks later, I’m still exhausted from long hours at work but no more excuses. Crossfit would only short me 90 minutes of sleep. I need this more than I need sleep, I told myself.

I must have been anxious because I was wide awake by the time my alarm went off this morning. On the way to the gym, the guys high-fived me and congratulated me on joining the club.

My buzz was short-lived.

The warm-up was push-ups (which I had to do on my knees), pull-ups (which I couldnt do at all), squats (okay, got those), and a 400 meter dash. The dash did it. My throat closed up, my chest tightened and I realized too late that I had forgotten my inhaler. As the group moved on to overhead chest presses, I couldnt lift the bar. Just the bar, no weights added. And that was what they would be doing for the entire duration of the class. Something I could not physically do. I looked around for hand weights. In what world does the instructor NOT offer some exercise alternative for those who can’t keep up? Not in Crossfit world, apparently. I was embarrassed, feelng like a fool standing there wheezing. Defeated, I gathered up my belongings and wandered out of the gym.

Once back in my room, I sucked on my inhaler and wondered what do I do now? I need to lose weight. I need to get back in shape. I also need someone to stand nexty to me in the chow hall line and tell me to put down the potatoes. Or maybe just to utter the magic word–Captain America– when my motivation falters.

So not crossfit. But something else. It’s time.

Hedonist

This may as well be titled “Confessions of a Makeup Monger” because I’ve never met a red lipstick that I could walk away from, I have more nail polishes than a Vietnamese salon and have had casual, passionate, short-lived flings with hundreds of perfumes.
What I am trying to decide now is if “Hedonist” is just another fling–a fiery love storm that will pass in a month.
I am practical so I try before I buy when able. I spend entirely too much money on luckyscent, myperfumesamples, and theperfumdcourt than fiscally wise. Still, better to drop $20 on a sample than $250 on the full-sized bottle if I’ll be ready to move on in a month.
My sample of Hedonist lasted less than 2 weeks. So here I sit, debating whether to spend another $20 for another 2 weeks or to take the plunge and truly splurge on a beauty product. I mean, I”m a drugstore cowgirl who grew up eating hamburger helper without the hamburger so when you’ve been broke most of your life, it’s hard to justify spending that kind of money on something so frivolous as a perfume.
Still, I am a firm believer that there are a few things that every woman should own: A dress that she feels smokin’ sexy in no matter what time of the month it is, an expensive piece of jewelry (engagement rings don’t count), and a gorgeous bottle of very expensive, luxurious french perfume.
I do not yet own the latter because I had never encountered a perfume that I loved that much. Until now.
So Viktoria Minya is Hungarian but it still falls in the realm of fine french perfumes. I orderd the sample on a whim because I liked the name. I was entirely ambivalent when I dabbed it on but within seconds, it hit me like “Whoa…” Honey. I smelled like honey and rum and…something else that I couldnt place a finger on. So I looked up the notes:
Top notes: rum CO2, bergamot, peach

Heart notes: jasmine absolute, orange flower absolute, osmanthus absolute, tobacco

Base notes: vetyver, cedarwood, vanilla

And sex. Definitely sex.

Is it the sort of scent that will send a man into a frenzy? I don’t know and that therein lies my biggest hesitation, I think. Like the dress that I know for certain makes me look like a pin-up bombshell, perfume is more subtle. Men are quicker to tell a woman she looks nice before they tell her she smells nice. Maybe because there is something mildly lecherous about a strange man remarking on the scent of a woman. And I dont want to throw myself at every strange man I encounter here and demand “Smell me! What do you think?” Compliments must come unprovoked or they don’t count. This perfume must incite lust without me having to ask.
And it must incite lust. It must tickle, linger in a man’s psyche as something exotic, sensual, precious. I did not spend $250 just to ‘smell nice’.