Hotels are for boning, Airbnbs are for making love

I’m behind on writing this week. The past 7 days I’ve been working and playing in the great state of Colorado. It was a fantastic week in the 38th state. I drove on empty roads and looked down scary mountains. You learn a lot about yourself when you’re taking selfies 6000 feet in the air. Especially as everyone else is taking insane engagement photos.

My first four nights in Colorado I stayed at a wonderfully sexy hotel in downtown Denver. The hotel was sexy for many reasons: the fruit-infused water in the lobby, the alcove window in my room, the multiple shower heads, and of course, the endless supply of stiff, fresh towels.

Every moment I spent in this room was a moment I wished someone knocked on my door with an intent to deliver room service and a good bang.

My last three nights were spent somewhere less room servicey, more ‘please take your shoes off upon entering the housey.’ My Airbnb in Fort Collins had two fresh towels that had seen an unheard level of fabric softener. It had one closet I could use, one closet I couldn’t, a single shower head, oh! And it had Mike. My Airbnb host.

Don’t worry, I didn’t fuck Mike. I didn’t fuck anyone in my little Fort Collins room. And I didn’t want to fuck anyone. My perfectly cool, 69 degreed, semi-swanky hotel may have had me hot and bothered but my never exactly the right temperature, semi-second-rate BNB had me feeling something else. With every hotel and Airbnb experience I have, it becomes clearer and clearer to me: Airbnbs aren’t for fucking. Airbnb’s are for making love.

Hotels represent my fantasy of adulthood. When I stay at a hotel, I am playing the ultimate adult version of ‘pretend’. It’s a safe place for my ridiculous, over-the-top inner psyche to play. This rare version of myself doesn't come out often, so when she does, she is ready to POUNCE. But all that disappears when I stay at an Airbnb. Because if hotels are the fantasy, Airbnb’s are the reality. 

You don’t have the same anonymity at an Airbnb that you do at a hotel. You don’t just put in your credit card information, you tell your host about yourself. What is bringing you to their neck of the woods? There’s rules and little notes and constant reminders that you’re immersed in someone’s actual life. My god, you know what their handwriting looks like!

When you stay at a hotel you dial ‘0’ and a stranger brings you food. At an Airbnb, Mike recommends restaurants for you to explore. At your hotel, you’re given nice glasses for beverages. At an Airbnb, you find a ‘#1 Son’ mug in the cabinet. At a hotel, your room is magically cleaned. At an Airbnb, you get a text telling you where the extra paper towels are. A hotel treats you like a one night stand, an Airbnb wants to meet your parents. It’s kind of...romantic. 

One of the best things about love (romantic, friendly, or otherwise) is the joy I get from doing something special for that person. Suddenly I want to paint them a picture or buy a dumb shirt I know would look good on them or send along a song I know they’d like. Some people get a funny feeling in their stomachs when they are falling in love, I get the urge to scrapbook. The touches in an Airbnb elicit that same feeling. They are curated by a real person, not a corporation. In 2015, when I stepped into my Airbnb in Nashville and saw Johnny Cash ready-to-go on the record player, my heart melted. Suddenly I was on a honeymoon.

I love traveling which means I love hotels and I love Airbnbs. Both accommodations represent some sort of adventure. But if someone’s going to, for lack of better words, fuck the shit out of me, I want that to be in a place where it’s ok to leave behind a mess. Where I don’t have to worry about a bad review or lack of stars or disappointing Mike. After all, he did let me use his Keurig.

You're doing this to yourself

I took my dog, Remy, outside to pee. He was giving me the ‘I gotta pee’ signal of an intense stare. But when we got outside, Remy realized it was raining and suddenly his urge to pee vanished.

“Come on, baby.” I said. I pulled him to the curb expecting him to immediately hunker down and piss (which is what he usually does in inclement weather). Instead, Remy started pacing back and forth up the sidewalk growing more frustrated with each rain drop that fell on him. He was annoyed, shaking the wet off of him every three seconds. Yet, despite his growing frustration, he refused to pee.

“What the hell, Remy!” I said, getting soaked myself. “You’re doing this to yourself!” As soon as I said those words, I felt my metaphorical foot go directly in my mouth.

You see, the night before I had a date of sorts. I thought I had wanted this ‘date.’ I thought it was my duty to give the traditional back and forth of getting to know someone ‘the ole fashioned way’ over drinks another try. But as soon as I caught myself repeating the same six anecdotes, the same stories I’ve decided make me ‘interesting’, I wanted to jab the perfectly chipped ice cubes of my overpriced cocktail straight into my eyes. I 100% did this to myself. Who cares where I went to college and what my favorite movie is and what’s currently playing on my Spotify? Each date I put myself through was another confirmation that those things don’t matter to me…at first.

What I want to know about someone, above all else, is: Are we physically compatible? What’s the point of comparing our Discover Weeklys or our tastes in film if we don’t know our tastes for each other?

If our bodies don’t fit together nicely, if our tongues don’t understand each other, if my hands can’t find a place to touch, I rather stop right there. But if all those things are working and feel good and feel natural THEN let’s do all the mundane, routine bullshit of getting to know each other. Dating is so much easier once I have a grip on our physical connection. Their stories seem more exciting, MY stories seem less idiotic. If a connection is nonexistent, what a gigantic waste of time! It’s no ones fault, it just is. Having a similar taste in music won’t change that.

So there I was, like my dog, in a situation I knew how to fix but didn’t. One of use uncomfortably pacing in the rain waiting for the sweet release of an empty bladder, the other uncomfortably sitting at a bar waiting for a tongue in their mouth. Despite everything I know about myself, I’m certain I’ll find myself in another date down the line. But instead of starting the night with ‘Shall we get a drink?’, I think I’ll opt for ‘Shall we see if there’s an attraction?’

What to expect when you start having really good, satisfying sex

Unsure if you’re having really good, satisfying sex? Are you having orgasms or are the orgasms having you?*

After having really good, satisfying sex for a whole three years now, I’ve learned the results of really good, satisfying sex go beyond orgasms. Good sex trickles down from your loins and drips into your everyday life like you never expected. You’ll look in the mirror one day (floor length preferably) and suddenly see the best version of yourself staring back at you. Wave at her/him! This is the new you. Just be warned, if you do this exercise with your sex partner (or dog) still in the room, you will be judged.

If you’re still unsure if you are indeed having really good, satisfying sex, take a look at my list of super, well-researched signs that I have discovered are absolute direct results of having really good, satisfying sex. Are you nodding along? Do any of these seem familiar to you? Well, congratulations! You’re having really good, satisfying sex!

SIGNS YOU MAY BE HAVING REALLY GOOD, SATISFYING SEX

1. You came a bunch

2. Your body is constantly exhausted but you haven’t been to the gym in over a month

3. You cancel your gym membership

4. You call your parents just to say ‘Hi!’

5. You almost tell your parents about the really good, satisfying sex you’re having because it’s so good you’re convinced they would be happy for you

6. You buy a new outfit (You deserve it!)

7. You post a picture of the New York skyline with the comment ‘#grateful’

8. You keep bringing up how tired you are to your coworkers hoping they ask what you did last night

9. You actually whistle while you work

10. You’re inspired to stop (or start) smoking

11. You say out loud more than once ‘I should cook more.’

12. You take the time to write a super positive, detailed Yelp review about your local bodega

13. You go to Target on a Sunday

14. You schedule your dental cleaning before they send a reminder

15. You take the bus

16. You call that friend who had a baby, gosh, two years ago?

17. You send that friend an Amazon gift card with a message about ‘staying in touch more’

18. You return your library books

19. When you return your library books you breathe in hard and say out loud to yourself ‘I love knowledge!’

20. You buy a single flower

21. You buy a new chapstick

22. What the hell, you buy all your friends new chapsticks

23. You bring back authentic emojis in your texts :-) :) ;)

24. You listen to Gershwin

25. You enjoy Gershwin

26. You make ‘I Got Rhythm’ your ringtone

27. You buy ‘Thank You’ notes (just in case!)

28. You meditate more but really just use that time to think about all the good, satisfying sex you’re having

*I don’t know what that means either

Kinky thoughts of a college Carolyn

Something I look forward to with My Sex Project is looking back years from now and cringing with delight at the thoughts and musings of a 33-year old Carolyn on her sexual journey. Much like I did when I read this rambling I wrote as a 20-year old Carolyn during her sophomore year of college.

I found this writing on an old hard drive and couldn’t believe it was written almost exactly 13 years ago to the day on November 17th, 2005. Here was a Carolyn doing exactly what she’s doing now: trying to figure this shit out. I knew I had a lot to learn then. I know I have a lot to learn now. Crazy how much we change while never really changing at all.

This was awkward as hell to read for me (It will be for you too). I feel embarrassed for the Carolyn who thought she was having super kinky sex when really she was only having…sex. But I am happy for this Carolyn. She was finally doing IT after years of thinking about IT before she knew what IT was. You can’t get that high back no matter how good IT gets down the line.

So please enjoy this, if you will, ‘vintage’ My Sex Project entry.

—-

November 17th, 2005

I need to get something off my chest. I swear I am not trying to be Christina Ricci from Prozac Nation and I swear I’m not doing this to feel indie, artsy, or cooler than I already am. That’s what my livejournal and myspace are for. I just think having my insane thoughts down in writing is better than in my head.

SEX!

I did it. I wrote it out and now I am going to talk about it. It always amazed and intrigued me even before I even experienced it. I would read my mom’s REDBOOK magazine and skip to the articles about sex tips. I didn’t know what it meant, but it made me feel racy. I’d sit in my basement and find an erotic novel. The ones with the big, muscular men on the cover. The ladies with flowing hair and some royal looking dress properly placed over all the “bad” body parts. They usually took place on some random island or a ship. I’d thumb through the pages until I found the ones with the sex scenes. I had to be no more than 12. Most likely younger.

Back in 7th grade my friend Connie told me redheads and Scorpios are supposed to be good in bed. I am both of these qualities. I don’t find myself to be good in bed though. I am still a trainee when it comes to the tricks of sex. I don’t know what else to do but lay there and I am too scared to try something else. But though I may not be the ultimate sex goddess, I do think my redhead Scorpio traits have made me obsessed with sex. I called it back in my senior year of high school. I said to my friends, I think when I finally have sex, I am going to want it all the time.

My first time was weird as was expected. I didn’t know it was coming. I wasn’t in love. I had no idea what to do. I don’t regret it all which I am thankful for, but it definitely did not fill me with the sexual energy and desire I have now.

One night while me and D* were a little drunk we stumbled upon an apartment. We were promised that in this apartment would be bowls and blunts galore. Like sneaky little stoners we crept ourselves into this apartment and sat with anticipation. There he was. Willy Wonka. Our provider of the green goddess was someone who had a great likeness to Willy Wonka. Blue eyes. Crazy hair. I died a little inside. Weed and Willy Wonka. The two loves of my life.

I confessed to him I had a thing for Gene Wilder and he looked like him. He didn’t know whether to take it as a compliment or be offended. D reassured him it was a good thing. I clung on to his every word. “Do you want to see my cat do tricks?” My heavy, high head slowly nodded yes.

After we were blazed out of our minds we went the apartment next door. D was ferociously getting hit on by some drunk kid while me and Willy Wonka sat on a couch. We watched the attempts of this kid and laughed. The Candy Man leaned over and whispered in my ear, “Your friend is occupied. I’m going back to my place. You’re obviously invited.” And he was gone. I froze. I didn’t know what to do. I was overcome with excitement and fright at returning to his apartment alone.

D calmed me down and said we’ll all go back together. So me, D, and drunk kid returned. A slight disappointment ran through me when his place was filled with people. We sat down and let ourselves become absorbed in our high. I had never wanted someone so bad in my life then at that very moment. So I tried to make it happen.

I did my girl thing and crept off to the bathroom. In the bathroom I didn’t pee or wash my hands or anything. I just stared at myself in the mirror freaking out thinking I need to make out with this guy. I prayed and wished and hoped that when I opened that door he would be there with the same idea in mind. I prepped myself and swung the door open. The darkness of the room overwhelmed me and I couldn’t see. He wasn’t there. I mouthed “fuck.” I took a step out and when my eyes fully readjusted to the darkness there was Wonka’s figure sitting on a couch in front of me. Again I died inside.

My giddy self sat down next to him. We exchanged words. Words I cannot remember. I do remember saying I had to make out with him. It finally happened. We made out and to this day it was the best makeout session of my life. My hair was in pig tails a choice of hairstyle I will never regret. He clung on to them and pulled me closer. I thought to myself, wow. Here’s a masturbatory fantasy I will never forget**. We exchanged numbers before I left then I sadly returned to my lonely dorm room.

That is the beginning of the end.

He crept into my thoughts all the time. When we met up again a week later I gave myself to him. I gave myself to him again before I left for Disney World. And then again. And then a little after that, again.

He’s a drug. Over the summer he would call me and leave voice mails. “Hey girrrrrrrrrl….” The whole situation was and is quite shady. I go there. We get high. I watch him and his friends play video games. They drop off one by one. We get busy. I leave. Rinse and repeat.

Every time on my drive home I say, that was the last time. This can’t be good for me. But then a week later I’d be sitting on the same couch, watching the same video games, thinking the same things on my drive home. I have never had that much action in my life. It got to the point where it was at least once a week. Amateur, yes, but that is a lot in my life. This is when the addiction set in. I needed it. I craved it. I got excited whenever it began. He skillfully led me into his bedroom and pulled off my skirt. He played with my breasts before even taking the shirt off so that when he finally did, my chest was filled with goosebumps. When he removed my shirt he brought my arms with him, pinning them down when the shirt was off. I had nowhere to go but there was nowhere else I wanted to go. This man was filled with skills and tricks up his sleeve.

Unfortunately I have never came with him. I have come close to it but never experienced the spasms of a full-fledged orgasm. This is not to say it was unenjoyable. Far from it. I still was naked with him and he still made my hands and feet go tingly.  

—-

I laughed so hard when I read that last paragraph. This amateur, erotic tale finalized by the harsh reality that this dude did not have my interests in mind and I was having Charlie horses instead of orgasms.

It’s obviously not the sex that sticks out for me about my time with Wonka. What was so sexy for me was the fact that it wasn’t some long drawn out, ‘Will they, won’t they?’ nonsense. I wanted something and I got it. My inner Veruca Salt who wants it now, who insists on pink macaroons and performing baboons, who deep down lives in all of us, was slowly but surely finding her voice.

—-

* one of my roommates
** I don’t still use this fantasy

A Successful Evening with Erotic Filmmaker Erika Lust

I called my grandmom as I took my dog for a walk last Sunday evening. She asked me how my day was.

“Oh, I played with Remy, did some writing and emails. And then I went to this really cool event with this filmmaker, Erika Lust, who creates really cool…porn.”

I waited for a response. Instead, Grandmom reminded me about the new Goodwill opening up in the town over.

I had a feeling there wouldn’t be any follow-up questions regarding my evening with Erika Lust. Sure, maybe it is a bit much to expect my grandmom to embrace the topic of porn. But these kind of events, these kind of discussions, will always excite me. And sometimes, despite the awkwardness, I feel compelled to talk about these things with the people that matter to me most - my family.

Let me backtrack.

Last Sunday evening, in the lobby of The Assemblage NoMad in Manhattan, adult filmmaker Erika Lust and her partner, Pablo Dobner, sat down with Jared Matthew Weiss. Jared is the creator of Touchpoint events. Touchpoint is a town hall where where real people share real stories from their love and sex lives.

The first time I perused Lust's site, I immediately knew, game over. I was never going back to YouPorn or PornHub. I signed up for all the mailing lists and was sent Eat With Me. Eat With Me involves, you guessed it, food and fucking. But it also involves teasing, and intimacy, and a back and forth of lovemaking not found in the cookie cutter porns I was used to watching. Not only did I come, I think I teared up.

Erika, who lives and works in Barcelona, talked about how she got her start in creating pornography. She originally studied political science but then, according to her website, found herself inspired after reading Linda Williams’ Hard Core which analyzed the impact of porn on society. Erika discussed the huge conflict she had between her mind and body as she watched mainstream porn. She watched it, she liked it, but something about it made her uncomfortable. That’s why in 2004 she created her first short, erotic film The Good Girl. The Good Girl uses the classic trope of the ‘pizza delivery guy’ but then continues from the female perspective. The film got over two million (pre-YouTube) downloads in the first few months.

Since then, she and Pablo, (who is her husband as well as the CEO of Erika Lust Films) have worked together creating award-winning, beautiful, ethical porn that represents human sexuality as it really is.

To me, Lust’s career was on par with a rockstar. But as I watched her speak very proudly of her work, I noticed the way she was sitting, left arm draped over her stomach, reminded me of myself. As I saw myself in her; this rockstar, erotic filmmaker, so human, so down to earth, giggling over ‘69’ jokes; I was reminded that the topic of sex doesn’t have to look like the kitchy, outlandish, over-the-top, day at the Comic Con that sometimes surrounds it. Yes, sex can be shocking, but more than that, sex can be accessible and flow naturally out of us.  

Which brings me back to Grandmom. I can tell my family is uncomfortable with the way sex has been ‘flowing naturally’ out of me these past few years in my writing and comedy. My parents came to see me headline a show last year. I did 45-minutes, 30 of which was about my sex drive. After the show my mom told me how well I projected. A positive response, yes, but I wanted more.

Erika spoke of the moment her mom discovered her erotic film on Twitter a year after it had been released. Her mom was mad, told her it was out of line and told her it could destroy the possibility of her having an actual career. But as the endorsements and popularity of Erika’s films rolled in, her mom was able to better understand the importance of her daughter’s work. Crap. Is success the only way I'll break through with my family?

At the end of the interview Jared opened up for Q & A. Even with all my years doing stand-up, I still have trouble forming normal, non-jokey, non-shaky sentences when speaking in front of strangers. Despite all that, I knew I had something to ask.

I asked Erika how her work would have been affected if she never got the metaphorical thumbs up from her mom. Erika responded that as a stubborn woman she would’ve persisted on with her work. Pablo said the two of them becoming parents themselves resulted in a new level of respect, too. But then after a moment, Erika conceded, sharing that there was still some discomfort from her mom towards her career. Her mom might respond very excitedly to something her sister accomplished in her more 'normal' career and be noticeably less excited for something Erika accomplished.

Sometimes I wonder if a television appearance, a book deal, a high-paying job in comedy (do they exist?) would give my family a reason to be more interested and invested in the type of work I like doing, the type of conversations I enjoy having. And then sometimes I think even that wouldn’t matter. Erika’s at the top of her game, hell she is the game, and even she still struggles to a degree. It’s both terrifying and comforting.

I may never get the discourse with my family that I so deeply crave and I may never get the success I crave either. My family's support may not manifest exactly the way I want, but there is support. For that I am grateful. I’m also grateful that, despite all the unknowns, my interest in sex still deepens, and, like Erika, I will keep going, I will be stubborn, and I will persist.

Embracing myself (not like that)

I have this book The Erotic Impulse: Honoring the Sensual Self. I bought it in Denver when I was there for a comedy festival. I was perusing the store with other comedians who I had just met moments before. We all got a crash course in each other’s personalities as we brought our chosen books to the counter. I blushed as I put the aforementioned Erotic Impulse on the counter.

Since I’ve been trying to replace my bedtime ritual of falling asleep to my iPad blaring Netflix nonsense to the more reasonable ritual of reading, I keep Erotic Impulse at my bedside and sometimes peruse before it I go to sleep.

The book includes essays and stories and poems written by various authors, some recognizable to me, some not. The book is not porn. It doesn’t turn me on like that but it does stimulate me. Each story/essay/poem offers something completely different but all with the intent of “opening the gates to a richer, more satisfying erotic life” for the reader. I find myself nodding along and relating to certain passages. And then are those passages that I don’t relate to: stories of coming out, poems and essays too complex for me, effects of the AIDS crisis.

There used to be a time I might skip those readings that I didn’t relate to. If something was too far removed from my world, I’d flip ahead and find something more relatable. A tactic I regrettably used in life too. What a dumb and terrible way to live that I’ve fortunately worked hard to break. I have no interest anymore in contributing to a close-minded way of thinking. I’ve seen the results. We’ve felt the results.

It’s become more and more easy to curate one’s life to your exact needs and surround yourself with only the pretty things you want to see. It makes starting a blog about my possibly mundane, dumb, scary, sexy thoughts on sexuality feel like a waste of time. Does anyone care about the opinions of some random white girl in her thirties who loves sex? Women love sex, have been loving sex. People love sex. I am, let’s face it, a nobody. Do I deserve to be taken seriously? Given a chance? What can I bring to the table?

(As I write this, two barely twenty-somethings sit next to me at Jack’s Coffee in the West Village. I’m tempted to ask them if they would give a shit about what some 33-year-old, non-sexpert, comedian had to say about sex. They keep saying words like ‘seminar’ and ‘homework’. They’re gonna be so much more successful than me.)

My stand-up act is very sex heavy. My experiences are interwoven throughout jokes, designed to be ‘funny’, certain words chosen over others. Yes, I am honest but do people believe me? Is this shit important? My jokes are inspired by very real moments and thoughts and feelings but they are being told on comedy shows where it’s reasonable to question the validity of what someone is saying. Something inside me keeps tricking me into thinking I have to prove that sexuality really is important to me and not just some attempt to be shocking. It’s why when people come up to me after sets and ask ‘Did that really happen?’, ‘Was that real?’ and I can confidently say ‘Yes!’, I get very happy. That moment when I say ‘yes’ is a reward for me. Once people realize I’m telling the truth, not only do they trust me, but they want to hear more. We talk. We share. It’s a reminder that my possibly mundane, dumb, scary, sexy sex life, your sex life, everyone’s sex life is important.

Of course I hope readers nod along in agreement to future entries but an even bigger hope for the blog is that my intent to discover a more satisfying, educated, well-rounded erotic life shines though. Embracing what I do know, embracing what you know. This is not an act.

It's my birthday

Today is my 33rd birthday and the start of My Sex Project. My Sex Project, while, yes, a new project, is ultimately the continuation of what will (hopefully) be my lifelong project of sexually peaking.

If you don’t know me, over the past three years I’ve talked a lot about my sexually peaking journey. Every tweet a new insight into my horniness. I talked about the confusing early stages, the experimental stages, the threesome stages! But a story I’ve never shared dates back to the weekend it all began. The weekend of my 30th birthday.

Three years ago I celebrated my 30th birthday in New Orleans. It was one of many places I always wanted to go and seemed an appropriate place to start my ‘Dirty Thirties.’ I believed that once I was thirty, I would seamlessly transition into the role of confident, sexually awakened woman. An understudy no more. I imagined coming home from New Orleans and immediately writing the next bestseller: Eat, Pray, Fuck.

Now usually when I travel alone, there’s an initial moment of panic. Why didn’t I ask a friend to join me? Do I even have friends? Am I the absolute biggest loser ever? Not this time. There wasn’t a single person I thought worthy enough to share this journey with me. It was my way or the highway. Move bitch, get out the way. Looking back, it’s truly amazing how confident one is the first 12 hours of turning 30. Well, I arrived in New Orleans the afternoon of my birthday absolutely glowing! Not from confidence rather unexpected heat and plane grease. So far 30 was looking and feeling hot.

I showered and headed to Bourbon Street. I heard honky tonk-like music coming from a bar called the Cat’s Meow. I’m sure in my head I thought something like ‘Cat’s Meow? Wait till they see my pussy.’ Seriously, the confidence. I got a margarita and purposely sat at an empty table. My first challenge as a sexually peaking woman: Let them come to you. Two songs later and after I had politely sacrificed the stools around me to butts in need, my second challenge as a sexually peaking woman came to light: Keep moving.

I walked into the outside patio of a bar playing jazz. Jazz. New Orleans’ bread and butter. This felt right. I took a seat at the bar next to a group of attractive dudes and flashed my toothiest Julia Roberts smile. I flipped my ponytail and let my pheromones loose. At this, one of the guys introduced himself. He and his friends were in town celebrating a bachelor party. I mentally patted myself on the back. The pending orgy was going to make a great chapter in Eat, Pray, Fuck. I asked what their plans were. Strip club? Dancing? Hotel party? Naked swamp tour? His answer was even hotter. He was going back to the hotel to check on his wife and kid. Turns out the only bachelor at the bachelor party was the man of honor himself. I contemplated reactivating my Tinder account for the weekend.

I kept walking and found a bar called 21st Amendment. The music being played reminded me of Boardwalk Empire and if there’s one thing you should know about me it’s that prohibition era music gets me wet. I took a seat and watched the musicians. I don’t know why but I had my eye on the dead-eyed, bass player. He reminded me of Judd Apatow even though I had no idea what Judd Apatow looked like. But when the musicians took their break, it wasn’t he who sat next to me, it was the saxophone player. The saxophone player (whom I’ll refer to as Sam), bought me whiskey and thought I was funny. Plus, as a seasoned local, I could tell he enjoyed talking to a first-time visitor. I stayed for the rest of his set.

Sam and I strolled around the French Quarter. I giggled as strangers pinned dollar bills on my jacket for my birthday. Traveling to New Orleans on your birthday is worth it for this tradition alone. All the attention and free money had me very excited. I felt myself peaking.

The night kept on and somewhere between Canal Street and my hotel, Sam stopped to kiss me. I felt my confidence battery recharging. I was almost at 90% when he pulled away and calmly broke the following news to me: Sam wanted to give me the best head of my life. He said it so matter of factly that it took me a moment to register. When the words hit me again I froze. The newly confident Carolyn suddenly felt very nervous and even more unprepared. I felt my prowess shrink and battery drain as I politely declined. We exchanged numbers and I left. I spent the rest of the night watching My Kid Would Never Do That while eating delicious hotel peanut butter and jelly sandwiches under the covers. I decided this was the ‘Eat’ portion of my book.

Despite the early hiccup, I continued to have a great time in New Orleans. I went to so many bars, and a music festival, and a Peaches concert! I made friends with people I still cherish today and I even went on a ferris wheel! But my lack of dirty deeds had me questioning my new role of sexually awakened woman. Sure, I got dinner at 1am with Peaches’ backup vagina dancers but my vagina wanted to be the star!

I spent my last day at the World War II museum. Somehow in three days I skipped my ‘Dirty Thirties’ and went straight to ‘Obsessed with War Late-Fourties.’

I sobered up with propaganda and exhibits on the use of cooking grease for explosives (Neat!). I had to do something before the bomb ticking inside me exploded, or worse, never went off. I decided to give Sam (and myself) a second chance.

I found him at one of his gigs back on Bourbon. We got dinner and drinks and swapped condensed versions of our hopes and dreams. I said nothing of his previous night’s request to give me the best head of my life as he gave me an impromptu ghost tour. It wasn’t until we moseyed away from the Lalaurie Mansion and toward my hotel that I could sense his offer about to make a comeback.

We made it back in time for the free peanut butter and jelly and hot chocolate. We sat in the lobby and enjoyed our free treats while the prospect of another ‘treat’ lingered in the air. I reminded Sam about my early flight the next day to which he responded with some cliche about ‘ships passing in the night’. But then, for the second time during my four days in New Orleans, Sam asked permission for the chance to give me the best head of my life. I knew it was coming and yet I froze again. There I was, my one half a grown woman trying to embrace her sexuality, the other half nervously eating a PB&J. I didn’t feel threatened or think he was trying to take advantage of me so why was I so nervous?

I may not have realized it then but the thing that freaked me out was his honesty, albeit a bit conceited. Sam was very clear and upfront in what he wanted from me. Scratch that, what he wanted to do to me. Up until then, my sexual experiences were never so decided. Logistics weren’t really discussed, they just happened. I also wasn’t used to someone completely setting aside their own satisfaction. Was I really being offered the chance to just ‘get mine’?

In the popular book, The Ethical Slut, the authors remind those in open sexual lifestyles that, “The important thing is to be aware of your needs and wants so you can go about getting them met with full consciousness. If you pretend that you have no needs for sex, affection, or emotional support, you are lying to yourself, and you will wind up trying to get your needs met by indirect methods that won’t work very well.” The more I continue to familiarize myself with this type of honesty, the louder it rings true. Being honest has been an extremely important revelation in owning my sexuality. I’ve learned way more about myself by pinpointing and expressing my exact sexual needs than just by ‘getting laid.’ Not only that, being upfront has provided me a whole new way of approaching casual sex, an act I naively thought of as more bad than good. Casual sex doesn’t have to sloppy, it doesn’t have to be rushed, hell, it doesn’t even have to be the standard definition of sex. Just because you may not ever see that person again doesn’t mean the moment should be void of your truest self.

Now, did I go through with it? Was it the best? Are saxophone players as good with their mouths as they claim? Were the free PB&J’s at Le Pavillon really that good?! Hm, I think I’ll plead the peanut butter fifth and keep my mouth stuck shut. After all, this is only the first entry of many and it’s my birthday. Stay tuned.

A Very Brief (Silly) History of My Sex Project

One night as I laid in bed trying not to look at my phone, I thought about how I am a few months away from turning 33. I thought about how I was happily (I swear!) single and I thought about my apartment where I lived alone in New York. Well, Brooklyn but shush. I thought about my big, uneven closets filled with Payless shoes that make my heels bleed. And of course, I thought about my increasing interest in sex. Doing it, writing about it, talking about it. I smiled a dumb smile and thought, ‘Am I a discount Carrie Bradshaw?’

You right now: “Bitch. Did you really just compare yourself to Carrie ‘who gives a sh*t, this ain’t the aughts’ Bradshaw?” Maybe I did and maybe hear me out.

I was 13 at the start of Sex and the City. I didn’t have cable or a clue. I never even had a tongue in my mouth. Carrie who? But over the years, and as a direct result of tv syndication, I’ve definitely ‘accidentally’ watched the entire series. Now 32, living alone in New York, a writer of sorts figuring out her own views on love and sex, as dumb as it may be, it was hard not to make the comparison.

As I continued thinking about my alternate universe-Carrie Bradshaw lifestyle, another thing hit me. Carrie Bradshaw. Carolyn Busa. CB. How did I not realize I shared initials with one of New York’s greatest, fictitious sex experts? I broke my ‘no screens in bed’ rule for a quick 1am Google search: How old was Sarah Jessica Parker at the start of Sex and the City? Google revealed to me what I had been suspecting - she was 33. I felt a chill in the air…mainly because the AC was on but! The excitement was real.

I decided then and there: I am starting a sex blog. So what if it’s 2018? Here we are and here is my blog.

Welcome to My Sex Project. Where a single woman in her thirties with CB as her initials, who writes and lives alone in New York and (don’t forget) has big closets writes (with a sense of humor!) about her thoughts on love, her opinions on sex and her adventures with both. Move over CB, CB is in town!

What is My Sex Project?

What?
My Sex Project is my attempt to explore and write about sex as much as I can during my 33rd year of life. Some entries may be very honest essays, some entries may be very silly lists, and most will probably be somewhere in between.

Every week I’ll find new ways to shape and sharpen my sexuality through books, events, experiences, conversations, toys, videos, people, questions and (fingers-crossed) sex.

What happens at 34? Well, hopefully a book deal. But if not, at least a better understanding of myself, my sexual interests, and an entire year’s worth of salacious stories and humorous advice. Or humorous stories and salacious advice. I’ll let you decide.

 Who?
Me. Hi. I’m Carolyn. You may know me from being a comedian or (the more likely scenario) you don’t know me at all. I like doing jokes about sex. I like making my web series about sex. I also love mangoes and Disney World and would be happy to relate them to sex if you’d like.

Where?
Here, there, everywhere! I am based in Brooklyn, NY but I think about, write about and ‘do’ sex all over! The human body is a wonderful, travel-friendly thing.

When?
My Sex Project will officially begin on my 33rd birthday, October 29th, 2018. In The Happiness Project (more to come about that later) Gretchen Rubin uses milestone moments as ‘cues for evaluation and reflection’ that ‘often act[s] as a catalyst for positive change’. My 33rd birthday isn’t necessarily a major birthday but why wait?

Also, fun fact, Sarah Jessica Parker was 33 at the start of Sex and the City.

Why?
Three reasons (for now):

1) For someone who is obsessed with the intricacies and weirdness surround sex as much as I am, I could benefit from knowing more about my favorite subject. I’ve accepted I’m not going back to school for some degree in psychology, or sex therapy, or bone doctor (spoiler alert: I’m kinda lazy), but attempting to become some sort of unofficial sex expert through my own research, reading and writing gets me very excited.

2) After finding it on the street, (which is sadly how I acquire most of my books) I read Gretchen Rubin’s above-mentioned The Happiness Project. I wasn’t concerned about my levels of happiness but I was inspired by her commitment to the project and the detailed record-keeping of her journey. It made me want to give myself a challenge of my own. I’ve learned over the years, I flounder without deadlines or routine. But blogging weekly for a year, that I can (hopefully) do!

3) And lastly, I’m grateful that for the past few years I’ve become comfortable exploring my sexuality in the bedroom and on stage. But something about writing about sex in this way, on this platform, scares me. It seems much more real than the condensed, heightened stories I tell on stage.

It’s why I love this quote from from American photographer Nan Goldin: Sex isn’t about performance; it’s about a certain kind of communication founded on trust and exposure and vulnerability that can’t be expressed any other way. This is my attempt to push past that fear. Trust that my honesty will be entertaining (and educational!), expose myself in a different way and embrace my vulnerability for those who are unable to express themselves sexually in a way they want and deserve.

And hey, if none of that appeals to you, just laugh.

Nature is calling, gentlemen

Dear men,

This past weekend I celebrated Father’s Day by performing comedy on stage with my dad.

I watched as he put himself out there on my behalf. How he came the closest he’s ever been to actually putting himself in my shoes. I felt a seismic shift in my universe. A weight lifted off my shoulders.

I wish more of you would continue to surprise me in the way that dad did. Not necessarily performing comedy on stage with your daughters but seeing your daughters. Hearing the women in your lives who are your friends, your colleagues, strangers you pass on the street. This out of character moment from my serious, stoic father was proof that you have it in you.

Over the last two months, I’ve been overtly and aggressively told by strangers of your kind how gorgeous and beautiful I am. I've received unwanted messages telling me about the size of one’s dick.  I've been asked if I 'take care of those legs’ myself'. I've heard 'Oh, I like you.' as I cross the street. And then when I didn't respond or told them to stop, I’ve been met back with an all-too-familiar attitude. ‘Oh, you can't just say thank you?' As if they warrant my thanks. As if I should be grateful. As if I needed your validation.

I’m constantly questioning when it is ok to speak up. When it is considered ‘right’. I sat on a bus back to New York and allowed the man sitting next to me to keep his elbows just a bit too much on my side of the armrest. I could feel the heat of his skin and I hated it. “Relax, Carolyn. You’re being crazy.” I told myself. I didn’t ask him to move and remained uncomfortable.

Back in March in Arizona, after returning from sessions at the Southwest Love Fest, I walked to my Lyft driver waiting for me outside. I noticed he was standing outside his car door and wondered if I was truly seeing what I was seeing. I got in the back seat and looked again. Yes, he was pissing outside the car. I didn’t know what to do as he took his seat up front. “Sorry, nature called, ma'am.” he said. Hours earlier I sat in awe listening to Susan Wright, one of the directors of the National Coalition for Sexual Freedom, speak on the importance of consent. Speak on giving yourself the confidence to remove yourself from uncomfortable situations and yet I sat frozen. I could not find the words. I let him take me to my destination and screamed at myself in my head for not immediately telling him to fuck off or refuse the ride.

The elbow moment was small, the Lyft driver moment was bigger. Was I in harm's way? Probably not. But it was another moment of a man 'doing as he pleased'. ‘Nature’ calling. What would be the next, bigger moment where I couldn’t stick up for myself?

It’s good to remind myself that there is no ‘right’ moment to speak up. There is only how I feel and that should be enough. My dad is not guilty of actions like the above, nor is he of that mindset. But up until recently I had settled with the fact that my father is who he is. You can’t change a man just like you can’t change nature, right? But as we see everyday, nature adapts and nature blends. It survives by stretching necks and changing colors. Take a look around, my little finches. It’s time for you to change.