Another shot of whiskey, can’t stop looking at the door, wishing you’d come sweeping in the way you did before. –Lady Antebellum, Need You Now

Ever since I was really young, I used to do this weird thing with all of my favorite songs. Because most of my favorites were ones that I could really identify with, because I felt that they were songs written literally for me, I would fantasize about what I thought the music video would entail. I would listen to the song with my eyes closed and envision what I thought should be shown in the video, what expression I wanted conveyed, and what I would do if it was me on that set. Even down to the wardrobe because everybody knows it’s all about the dress [and the shoes]; it’s all downhill from there.

I know this sounds kind of crazy, especially given all the special effects that are in existence today, but I was actually pretty good at it. (And I’m just now realizing that maybe this is why I didn’t have a ton of friends in high school. Maybe this exact situation is why I would be forever labeled a nerd. Because instead of socializing and making friends like a normal teenager, I was sitting around thinking about what backdrop I would want for my latest musical obsession’s new music video. I was trying to figure out what wedges I would be wearing while walking through a dusty dessert because I wouldn’t want nude ones to blend into the natural scenery!) For a lot of them, I was pretty close to spot on and even if the video came out and it wasn’t my exact thought process being exhibited, there were elements there. I was never really way off base when I played this little game with myself.

Except once. Goddamn Lady Antebellum had to go and fucking ruin everything.

I know it’s probably so overplayed now but I am obsessed with that song Need You Know. To me, and in retrospect, I feel a little stupid saying this, there is so much longing in that song. Like, “… can’t stop looking at the door, wishing you’d come sweeping in the way you did before…” just speaks such volumes to me. It describes so eloquently that proverbial situation where you really miss someone and you can so vividly remember the last interaction you had with them. And in most cases, that last interaction wasn’t the one that was really special aside from the fact that it’s the last time you saw his face. 

Maybe you had an argument and were just being too cold to forgive him. Maybe you dropped something and you both bent at the same time to pick it up and caught each other’s glances for just a second. Maybe things ended so poorly that you chose to just remove yourself from the situation because it seemed easier than working through it. Easier on your racing thoughts and easier on your heart to just fade away into that dark alley. 

But because it was the last time you saw him, whether you intended it to be or not, you remember everything. You remember it so much that it stings every time you think about it. You remember the sweet lines around his eyes because he was a chronic smiler. You remember that necklace he always wore poking through the sheer fabric of his shirt, the medallion that always reminded you of Ricky Ricardo. You remember the sweet smell of Burberry and clean linen because it was a spontaneous meet up and he didn’t have time to change. You remember it was muggy and warm out even though it was dark because summer would be right around the corner. You remember what you were wearing and you remember how you thought it certainly wasn’t good enough. You remember that you weren’t really as nice as you could have been, that you let little things bother you that now seem so unimportant, that you allowed your cold heart to prevail. Better to be right than pleasant. Better to be feared than loved.

So when I listened to that song, those were the things I envisioned. Maybe a little bit of tortured heartache, pieces of burning regret mixed with the romance of really missing someone. A dissolved couple too torn to reach out to each other, too hell bent on being the stronger one, the one who was eternally right, to cave and show some outward feeling. 

You know what that music video was about? A booty call. It wasn’t about love and loss or heartache. It wasn’t about a man sitting at the same bar every night on the off chance that his long lost love might come waltzing in. It wasn’t about people pinning quotes about heartbreak or using other people’s lyrics to express their own pain. It wasn’t beautiful and dreary. It was about a goddamn booty call. 

I was so angry. You don’t even know, friends. I mean, do these people even like each other? Are they holding out on the rest of their lives in the hopes that their one true love will come back to them? No! They just have worked out a stupid bang buddy arrangement. They probably don’t even know each other’s last names! IT’S NONSENSE!

It’s hard to save the world when you can’t save yourself. –Carrie Jones, Need

To be honest, I have always sort of struggled with understanding the notion of a “booty call”. I know this probably sounds so ridiculous given the current circumstances that we live in. I mean in today’s world, you can order professional escorts online, go to bars and observe voluptuous women take their clothes off for cash tips, and probably go on Craig’s List when you’re feeling aroused and there is no one around to satiate your sexual appetite. This is exactly why social networking was invented right? For the public to go on Tumblr and safely look up porn-esque models when they don’t have someone else to turn to or to download the Tinder app to connect with people they’re purely physically attracted to? To have dirty, fetish oriented Skype chats with strangers in the security of their own homes or to set up sexual rendezvouses with relatively attractive people they’ve suddenly reconnected with on Facebook?

I had this conversation with one of my husband’s friends at our gym. He was showing me this absolutely ridiculous profile of a woman on Tinder that he was attracted to but would obviously refuse to date because she was so visibly out of her cranium. I said to him, “What’s the point of this? Why do you do this?” And honestly, I expected a relatively honest answer from him because this guy is educated, polite and actually genuinely looking for a connection. (He’s also fairly blunt, which a common trait in men closely associated with my husband.) “Come on, boo. To get laid.” I did that crinkled eyebrow thing my husband hates and followed him to the free weights. It’s nonsense.

You know, I just can’t wrap my brain around it. It could be that I’m too much of a romantic, too unwilling to strictly be some man’s personal sexual entertainment but none of this makes any sense to me. I understand that people have needs; it isn’t as if I’m not privy to those feelings or what happens when they aren’t satisfied. My husband would say, sometimes men who have no self-control cheat in relationships, not because they’re assholes, but because they just can’t be satisfied. And there is some truth to that, I suppose but for me, it has to mean something. 

I understand, more than almost anyone, that sex is exciting. It’s a fun activity that should be kept spicy and fiery. I also know perfectly well that when done right, it’s something that can make you feel amazing both mentally and physically. There are actual hormones at work, like endorphins or whatever. (I actually read somewhere that a female orgasm lowers the levels of cortisol, so there’s that…) I am fully aware of all of this but for me, it’s also a self-esteem thing. I want to feel comfortable. I want to feel beautiful. I want to feel loved. I don’t want to be judged or compared to any previous conquests. I don’t want to be reminded of all the previous partners my current one had and I don’t want to hear about how closely they resembled Victoria’s Secret models. I don’t want to be talked into something I’m not comfortable doing and I don’t want to run the risk of being gossiped about to someone’s bros down visiting from The Shore. 

I would want my proverbial sexual partner to wake up thankful that we shared an awesome experience, reminisce fondly about it for the rest of the afternoon, and then again later while they’re sipping their martini. I don’t want him to be dying to get out of the apartment so he can chatter to his co-workers about it how nuts I am (“And let me clarify,” he would say, “not in a good way. Not in the way you’re thinking...”), how he’s never going down that road again, or how I looked way better with clothes on. I don’t want to be someone’s disappointment, someone’s reason for cringing every time they think about being intimate with me. I don’t want to have ruined it for anyone else. 

I ain’t about it, friends. Not even a little. I need to be caressed, I need to be taken seriously and I need to feel comfortable in my own skin. And quite frankly, I don’t feel like that’s too terribly much to ask.

I don’t know why it is, but every time I reach out for something I want, I have to pull back because other people will suffer. –Arthur Miller, All My Sons

It just seems unfair to me, the amount of pressure people put on all of this. For example, I had this male friend who was dating this woman. I don’t really know the whole story because he never really opened up to me completely about it but from what I could gather, he had stronger feelings for her than she had for him. And to be fair, that’s not to say there was anything wrong with him. I think that maybe, if my assumption is accurate, she just wanted someone to have fun with and he wasn’t that type of guy. He was Relationship Guy, not Bang Buddy Guy.

One weekend he planned this sort of “lost weekend”, this romantic getaway for the two of them. Apparently he had obtained a sweet room at this really swanky hotel and had something planned for practically every hour of their trip. It was something that was supposed to help her relax and de-stress, he had told me. (And for the life of me, I can’t recall the particular incident that was allegedly causing her anxiety because this was years ago. But it’s okay because it’s not that important.) One of the things he had “planned” was a super fancy dinner at a restaurant he was anticipating she would absolutely love. And let’s be real, to this man’s credit, who doesn’t love to be wined and dined? Personally, it’s my favorite thing in the world next to going to the beach and sexy peep-toe wedges.

Well, for whatever reason (and like I said, I drink a lot of whiskey most nights so it’s fuzzy and I hate saying that because I would hate to hurt his feelings), this particular day, the day where they had the elegant evening plans, she gets sort of unsettled. I had always assumed he was a pretty laid back guy and so in the beginning of all this, he’s really understanding. He is taking multiple measures to try and sort of talk her off a ledge but nothing seems to be working. She’s antsy and anxious and according to him, just having a visibly miserable experience. 

I guess some time goes by, the afternoon starts to pass and the evening is drawing nearer. He’s trying to rub her shoulders, he described it like nondescript massage to help alleviate some of her stress. He was thinking, maybe a little selfishly, that he had planned this whole thing for her. He had spent a decent amount of money on this posh hotel room, had made reservations for them to have dinner and he didn’t want this day to be indicative of their whole weekend because then, what would be the point? 

Maybe some of his annoyance was coming through because she gradually started to pick up on it. She gets up, excuses herself and goes to the restroom, returns a few minutes later in lingerie and says, “Well, this is what you want right? Let’s get it over with.”

I remember thinking that she did have a point; I mean, let’s be real. Being intimate is something that all men think about almost all of the time and that isn’t an insult. It’s just a scientific fact. But while I sat there and listened to him tell me this story, I immediately felt really bad for him. It kind of seemed unfair that she would put him on blast for something that he really had no control over. I mean, sure his finances made it easy for him to get a sweet hotel room for the weekend and being relatively charming, he was probably able to talk the hotel operator into a free upgrade. Also, it’s not like picking a restaurant and making a dinner reservation is something that’s really taxing but to be totally fair to this guy, he put a lot of thought into it. Maybe his whole plan was to get laid all weekend but these two people were adults in a committed relationship so I don’t feel like that’s a whole lot to ask out of an allegedly romantic weekend. I mean, in all genuine seriousness, why do people go away for anniversaries and spontaneous weekends? Why do people rent cabins that have hot tubs on the goddamn porch? To talk about the inner workings of their racing thoughts and rapid anxieties? 

Um, no. Try again.

I remember we talked about it for a while and he was really distressed about it. It wasn’t about the money or the wasted weekend. It was about her assumption that she was just a horizontal refreshment to him. It seemed to be more about the fact that she had this predetermined opinion of who he was and how he thought of her. She had it in her head, for whatever reason, that all he really cared about was having sex with her. She was apparently under the misguided misconception that he had planned this whole romantic, elegant, New York City inspired weekend so that he could have his way with her. And I think that really bothered him. Because he visibly cared about her so much. I mean, he was basically like a stepdad to her freaking kid. He wasn’t just trying to use her for sexual activities; he genuinely loved the shit out of her. All of the sexual excitement and spontaneous intimacy they shared, I’m sure, was just an added bonus to all the things he already thought were great about her.

  

You can’t always get what you want, but if you try sometimes, you might find, you get what you need. –Mick Jagger

It just seems like, as is evidenced in the aforementioned anecdote, society has been conditioned to just treat sex like a recreational activity rather than one that’s super intimate and passionate, something that is shared when two people genuinely care about each other. I mean, to be real with you, just typing that last sentence makes me feel like a bit of a nerd because that’s not how sex is viewed anymore. In today’s world, sex is like a business transaction. It is something that has become expected at the end of the night. It makes women (and men) who are hopeless romantics feel like they’re chronically on guard because we know what the expectations are. It makes you stare at the person sitting next to you at the bar and wonder if he’s listening to you because he’s actually interested or if he’s just trying to imagine what panties you’re wearing under that black banded skirt. Does he really, unaffectedly care about the words coming out of your mouth or is he fantasizing about all the ways he can silence you later? 

And maybe a lot of it goes further than just having sexual needs. Maybe it’s that some of us have more emotional needs than we’re willing to admit to. Perhaps it isn’t necessarily that we need to be sexually satisfied but that we need to feel some brand of physical bond, some type of carnal affection in order to feel fulfilled. Maybe it’s less about sex and more about attention. 

It could be that in some situations, there’s only so much we can do to entertain ourselves. We can watch 30 Rock and The Munsters over and over again to keep us company, to provide us with some kind of emotional connection but we all know that isn’t enough. At the end of the day, when you’re left with your rocks glass of vodka and a plate sticky with microwaved leftovers, what happens when there is no one there to hold close to your chest? What happens in the morning when you’ve got no one to kiss good morning and whisper, “Good morning, Beautiful,” to? What happens when there is no one there to provide you with warmth and affection, sweet solace from your hectic day, and a calm place to land when you need to get away from the world? What happens when you have no one to drink with, living room dance with, and tell stories to? And even more so, when you need a physical release, when you’re craving to have your sensual needs met? 

Composure meets comfort meets attraction and desire. What about that person who is meant to caress your troubles away? Don’t we all need someone to love us back to life?

Moral of the Crazy: I guess I can understand it to a degree but listen, I’m something of a needy person. I’ve been called lots of things but on more than one occasion, I’ve been accused of being attention seeking. And to be fair, I don’t think it’s in the way you’re thinking. I’m not one of those people that goes out to bars and other social outings looking to be gawked at. On the contrary, actually, because I prefer to sort of blend in. I want to be pretty enough to blend in with the rest of Florida’s relatively attractive female population but not so pretty that men hit on me left and right. Luckily, that isn’t something I have to worry about. To be honest, I’m a bit out of practice. 

You see, it isn’t that I’m an attention grabber in the sense that I make problems for people or act like a lunatic to get attention from them. (At work this week, I heard a woman say that she Baker Acted herself just to get a little attention, to get bumped up on the proverbial list of priorities. That type of behavior is absolutely not something I engage in.) I’m not frequenting places that I know my exes will be at in hopes that I can catch their eye and make them jealous with my handsome husband. To be honest, I actually avoid a lot of places because I don’t want to bump into anyone I know, especially anyone I knew romantically. The Tarpon Springs/Palm Harbor area is such a tiny place and running into someone you’ve at least been friendly with once is pretty darn likely. 

That’s just not me though. I truly value my anonymity. (I think that’s what is so fascinating about that place Ciro’s because it’s so private. I mean, it literally feels like you’re hiding in those false walls the Mob used during prohibition times. You’re not likely to bump into someone you know at a place like that and even if you do, it’s way too dark in there for them to assess how drunk, beautiful or inexpensively dressed you are.) It’s nice to sometimes to just be a fixture, to observe others rather than be witnessed, to have the freedom of insignificance. The world would be your oyster.

But with men I have been romantically linked with, those men that I have shared an intimate connection with (sexual or otherwise), with them I am attention grabbing. And if I’m honest, it took me awhile to realize that. I seem to thrive on conversation. Getting to know people and learning all their individual stories and characteristics is just fascinating to me. I like to know the secrets; all those things that maybe other people would be ashamed or embarrassed to hear. I want to know the inner workings of what makes those men who they are. I think what leaves me the most rapt by people is when they’re mysterious, when there’s all these things about them that I will probably never know. While it can be frustrating, it’s exciting because you’re always learning. There’s always some tiny piece that I’m never going to know.

In the beginning, it took me awhile to come to terms with this realization and I always kind of found it insulting. I would think to myself, an attention seeker is someone that sends proactive pictures to get attention, someone who gets intentionally wasted at a party and throws herself at anyone with a pulse, a person who posts pictures on social media to deliberately get a rise out of people she thinks will be affected by them. An attention seeker is someone who starts drama to get a little attention, someone who is so desperate for it that she will do anything to receive it, whether it’s positive or negative. And that’s not me; I’m quite a bit more reserved than that. 

I just want your eyes. I want your stories and your focus. I want you to trust me with the tales of your heartbreak and I want to know all the reasons why you are the way you are. I want to be the object of your affection, I want to know you’re thinking about me, and I want to feel like you’re missing me when we’re apart. I want you to think about me when you’re planning your vacation and I want you to ponder what our future would be like. And if that makes me an attention grabber, so be it. When I do things, I do them all the way. 

I guess it would be hurtful to say that the whole booty call debacle is something deemed completely unacceptable because it does seem to work for some people. Maybe it’s that in some cases, there is some equation in play and feeling good outweighs all the nonsense that goes along with a relationship. Why buy the cow when you can get the milk for free by way of some gorgeous pill popping sex freak who doesn’t make you take her to dinner? I mean, I suppose that if that’s all you’re looking for, booty calls could come in handy. But I ain’t about that life.

For me, it has to mean something. For me, it isn’t about the racy part of it because all of that will form naturally. For me, being sexual has always seemed like such a vulnerable state. And at the risk of sounding like a frigid schoolmarm, why would I want to be that vulnerable with someone I couldn’t care less about? Why would I want to unveil my most intimate fantasies with a man who couldn’t even be bothered to take me to dinner the night before or toast me rye bread the next morning? 

I mean, I won’t say that I haven’t ever had meaningless sex in my life because let’s be real, we all have. But I never felt good about it. I either felt judged or ashamed of myself and maybe it’s just me, but that seems to take all the fun out of it. The bottom line is that you want to feel good about yourself. You want to feel confident and comfortable; you want to be touched by someone who makes you feel graceful and sexy.

Hey, I realize that everything isn’t good for everybody. If you have the strength, discipline and self-confidence to be intimate with someone and not get creepily attached after one sexual encounter or get borderline depressed when they never call you again, that’s all you. I support it. I support your cardio incorporated extracurricular activities. 

But for me? I like the pillow talk and the secrets. I like knowing that you were probably just as nervous as I was and that’s only because I’m just that important to you. I like knowing that you save all your fantasies for me, that you immediately jump to thoughts of me when you need to relax. I like knowing that I left my sweet sweat on your skin and my candied words on your lips. 

And I love knowing that you’ll be thinking about it for the rest of your day. 

I’m oxygen and he’s dying to breathe. –Tahereh Mafi, Shatter Me