what the hell? you call this blogging and then you disappear for months? you suck….or why you should always post photos from a file that says “don’t even think about doing this!”

At the time of this photo shoot:

I was single. The kind of single that makes you feel shaving is a waste of a good razor type of single…even when it’s June in Los Angeles.

I felt empowered by the photo shoot, it was a life changer, but then I thought, which I really shouldn’t do because it always leads me to question things like: why does pizza come in a square box? Why is “bra” singular and “panties” plural? and what happens if I meet someone – like “The ONE” and he sees the photos and then The One thinks I’m damaged goods?

So I shelved the pics, hid them on my computer in a file named “Don’t Even Think about posting this!…seriously! STOP!”  and hopped a plane to my sister’s wedding.

…and that’s when I re-met a kid from my days growing up in Rye, New York, a town I swore I would never step foot in again- a town I had ran so fast from, even graduating early to get the fuck out of there…and then…

The moment my eyes met his, it was as if I was transported back in time, but instead of fear and pain – I felt safe. My mind flooded with images of the two of us running through my back yard; my hair wild, his skinny legs racing behind me – both of us laughing – breathless. It was sweet and innocent, things I thought I’d never feel. I forgot about the bad stuff and the shame that usually tugged at my skin, in his hazel eyes I was just a little girl running free. I was just me.

To say it was an intense weird deja vu experience would be like saying the Jets are gonna make it to the Superbowl. It is inconceivable, fuck that…It was BEYOND that. So I let go of it cause I wasn’t sure what you are suppose to do when your past and future collide in one awkward moment at your sister’s wedding, especially when your sister is marrying his older brother, and he’s the best man and you are the maid of honor – it just sounds like a fucked up backwards fairy tale.

A month after my sister’s wedding I stayed true to my promise to keep said photos under lock and key, and forgot about the kid from my past…until fate brought us together again.

I don’t think you can call it dating when someone tells you the first time you hang out that he wants to run off and marry you that night. That he has always loved you. That you are the most beautiful thing he has ever seen.

At this point we had only kissed – when he mentions what his ex-girlfriend said to him: “Good luck dealing with a girl that will forever be trapped in that time when all that stuff happened to her.”

Yup, that would be my worst fear realized in fucking technicolor and surround sound.

I kept quiet, because I didn’t think oxygen was still available for my consumption and my voice, the one I had spent years fighting to find, was suddenly silenced.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

Fuck no!… but I didn’t say that.

“I shouldn’t have told you.” he said. ” I just…I just want to share everything with you. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

But what if there was some truth to her words, and that truth weaved its way into his heart? What if she was right?…that I am unlovable. That I am forever frozen. It’s been 12 years since I had sex (no, that’s not a typo – 12 YEARS!!!)…..what if I freaked out? What if I am just a prisoner of my past?

The strength you feel in the moment when your faith is tested, when someone wields hate and venom, but you only see light is how I knew she was wrong. Love – the real kind had showed up in an unexpected and beautiful way and this time I wasn’t going to run. I stayed exactly where I was suppose to be, tucked safely in his arms.

I posted the photos the next day.

This is my story. This is what I have fought for. I will not be silenced by someone else trying to shame me, I owe it to that little girl with the wind in her hair who used to believe that love would never find me.

For the past few months I have been busy having incredible sex…marrying the man of my dreams…and making a baby.

how not to have sex with an incubus

Phone conversation with  Paul:

PAUL: Why are you whispering?

ME: Because I’m hiding in my bathroom and I don’t want him to hear me. Do you think my tub is cast iron? (I climb in – fully clothed)… Better?

PAUL: I don’t know what I’m suppose to be comparing it to – sounds the same.

ME: (closing the shower curtain) Now?

PAUL: SAME.

ME: How ’bout now? (lying down in tub)

PAUL. Same, but with reverb. You need to stop with the whole cat thing – it’s border line psycho. I know you think he understands what you are saying, but Italian is his first language, followed by German, Russian and then English. Things get lost in translation, that’s why you need to leave the TV on when you go out and don’t start spelling stuff. He can read.

ME: HE’S HERE!

PAUL: Who? The creepy repair man? How many times do I have to tell you that vacuuming in heels and lingerie, channeling your inner Maggie The Cat*, is weird. People will ask you about it.

(*Some people dress as their favorite superhero, I prefer to dress as my favorite damaged Tennessee Williams’ character  - alternating with Alfred Hitchcock’s icy blondes.)

ME: Nooooooo. Six-Feet-of-Shoulders is here. In. My. Bed.

PAUL: WHAT?!?!

ME: Shuuuuuuushhh…he’ll hear you.

PAUL: Why the fuck are you on the phone with me and why isn’t he inside of you?

ME: If an Incubus was in your bed – you’d better call me too.

….pause…..

ME: Paul?

PAUL: What?

ME: I’m not dreaming am I? Like Inception but with you, me, the Incubus that is a sleeping Six-Feet-of-Shoulders and a bathtub? Tell me something I don’t know so I know this isn’t a dream.

PAUL: How am I suppose to know what you know and what you don’t know?

ME: Tell me something I don’t know about you that only you know and then I’ll say it back when you come over.

PAUL: I woke up this morning being spooned by Wentworth Miller, it wasn’t until I reached back to grab his ass that I realized it was just a pillow.

ME: You thought Wentworth Miller would fit in your twin bed?

PAUL: I thought he was the pillow!

ME: Maybe obsessively watching old episodes of Prison Break on Netflix does more harm than good; it’s why I limit my consumption of the Jane Austen BBC stuff.

PAUL: The real problem is his name, it’s just not conducive to hot sex. Like am I suppose to say Oh God, Yes – give it to me Wentworth?!?! It sounds too formal and don’t even think of coming back with “Wenty” or “Mr. Miller”.

ME: What about “Baby”? It’s universal – just in case you’re thinking of someone else.

PAUL: Why would I be thinking of someone else when I have Wentworth fucking Miller in my twin bed?

ME: Maybe things have grown stale, the kids are driving you nuts, he doesn’t take out the trash unless you ask him and the guy fixing the Porsche is driving you crazy.

PAUL: You know I only drive cars that can fit a dead body in the trunk.

ME: That’s just it, it’s Wentworth’s Porsche. It’s another reason you are pissed. He’s treating you like an errand boy, not the devoted husband of 10 years, all the more reason to let the mechanic throw you up against the hood of Wenty’s Porsche and make you feel like a man.

PAUL: Do you think Wentworth Miller could love me?

ME: I don’t see how he couldn’t, although him being straight might be a complication.

PAUL: I’ve flipped the best of them.

ME: Are you gonna come over so I can find out if I am dreaming?

PAUL: What about sex with Incubus?

ME: What if it’s all in my head and I end up having sex with a ghost?  I don’t think you come back from that… you get pregnant with Satan’s love child like Rosemary’s Baby or make pottery with a half naked Patrick Swayze – either way it’s not pretty.

PAUL: I have no idea what you are talking about.

revirginized

I have an obsessive need to make lists spurned on by my addiction to office supplies. This is a two prong inter-related problem similar to prostitution and meth.

Don’t believe me?

Back when I was with my ex-hunk of a fiance – let’s call him Mr. Right-But-We-Went-Wrong, he happened to “borrow” Clicky – ( yes I name my pens – don’t act like you don’t) and lost him. I cried. I put up posters, filed a report…nothing.

Mr. Right-But-We-Went-Wrong bought me a replacement:

Clicky 2.0. It wasn’t the same. Like The Godfather Pt. 3

I have a serious thing for office supplies – all kinds – I am an equal office supply junkie offender.

Still not getting it?

Okay, look – you know the people that have a hundred different kinds of plastic surgery and start looking like a cat or Michael Jackson or a Michael Jackson cat?

well this situation is the same thing. I blame back to school shopping for the addictive feeling of wiping the slate clean – a new Trapper Keeper is the same as having the fat sucked from underneath one’s eyes sockets.

For example my eighth grade heart knew my marbleized notebook was going to save me from the terror that was trigonometry even if I had failed seventh grade math – my past was irrelevant – so said my fresh start of a new notebook. The same feeling must be what drives Joan Rivers to the knife. It has to be.

*please note the artistic cat drawing on cover -the parallels between office supply junkies and plastic surgery cat addicts united way back then.

This brings me to my point – list making – I do it obsessively and about everything- I have the office supplies to keep this going times infinity.

On today’s docket:

THINGS THAT CAN BE VIRGINIZED:

  1. cocktails (but really what is the point isn’t that just juice?)
  2. wool
  3. unfertilized gamets
  4. computer systems
  5. unalloyed metal
  6. homo sapiens (if they never mated)
  7. olive oil – The Jordon of virgins due to its bad ass category of Extra Virgin
  8. me?*

*I wish I was joking.

**Does this list make me look desperate? highly selective?

***Desperate would have been the countdown widget thingy similar to the national debt crisis counter I was contemplating adding to the home page of the blog. Number of days without sex______ and just have the number escalating by the minute. (Idea tabled- to be revisited at a later date).

****BG22QFJVEV47 – these are not my home coordinates (I AM NOT THAT DESPERATE) it’s something the blog cyber bots requested – when cyber bots speak I listen.

***** Clicky if you read this  - Mommy loves you baby!

can sex become an endangered species?

Question: Tracy Lane could you be more of a freak?

Answer: No. (especially when I talk to myself in the third person.)

But at least I have kept the mental lashing to a minimum in regards to the many which ways til tomorrow that I am a complete fuck-wit.

How not to be like me lesson #23: when an incredibly Cute Guy asks you out to dinner – you do what?

  • you say “yes”
  • “I’d love to.”
  • nod in an affirmative manner

Or you could say:

  • “sorry, joining the peace corps tomorrow.”
  • “can’t, brain surgery in the morning”
  • “nope, sorry, I am watching The Pauly D Project”. It’s crazy crack.

Dude’s got a tanning bed in his living room! I had to replay 3x because who the fuck has their own tanning bed? Oh, right DJ Pauly D…and then I had to consider the fact that I watch The Pauly D Project, not really watch more like fast forward and stop if he is:

  1. doing his hair
  2. using safety clips to pin his T-shirts tighter in order to emphasize his arm muscles – he calls this “tailoring”
  3. The Pauly D creepy hyper laugh
  4. anything involving his sneakers including but not limited to lining them up in perfectly straight lines

Pauly D is a lab rat for my OCD obession.  Must google OCD of OCD because I might have that. Can one be obsessed with another’s obsessive behavior?…whatever…Pauly D is not the point.

The point is when Cute Guy asks you out to dinner YOU SAY SOMETHING!! You don’t just stare awkwardly at him and then walk away. Well, I guess you do if you are me. Argh!

That’s it. I am going to be single forever and my vagina will be placed in plaster of paris or decoupaged…people will visit it like a museum – like a T-Rex exhibit – there will be benefit concerts, similar to Live Aid, honoring my vagina, because sex with Tracy will soon be on the endangered species list…can sex be an endangered species like the Spix’s Macaw?

Okay, probably not, more like going the way of holding up a lighter during a power ballad or looking up a number in the phone book – it’ll become an activity that slowly fades away.

Stop….I will not go down the self pity sex-less path. I am picking the other road less traveled. The road that says it is just too soon. My heart is still locked down in loyality to another.

That’s why I can’t say yes to dinner with Cute Guy, not yet, maybe soon, maybe next week, maybe next month…and when I do I won’t show up with a certain man still roaming around in my heart and God help me, I won’t be wishing I was home watching Pauly D.

A wise woman once said “you can’t hurry love..” damn straight. sometimes you just have to wait.

sex in numbers

After Six-Feet of Shoulders set off an atomic bomb in my chest I started “hanging out” with a guy – let’s call him “Hoops”.

Hoops and I had The Talk, you know the one, the one that either makes or breaks a new relationship. The Talk happened like it always does when cuddling in bed and went something like this:

“Sooo…how many people have you been with?” he asks.

“I thought you didn’t want to know.” I say

“I changed my mind.”

“You first.”

“Nine.”

“Really? That’s it?”

“Yeah.”

Hoops is devastatingly handsome, the kind of handsome that inspire high numbers. His magnetic green eyes waiting…waiting for MY number…

“Three.”

“Three?”

“Yeah.”

“You’re lying.”

“No, I am not.  I don’t lie…My high school boyfriend, my college boyfriend, and my post-college boyfriend.” I say.

The look on his face is best described as SHOCK.

“I’ve never had a one night-stand. I am a relationship girl.”

Proving yet again I should have been born when a corset was part of the dress code. I resist the urge to grab the freak label that is sitting on the bed next to me, the I-am-a-girl-that-only-fucks-guys-I-love type of freak.

“I lied.” Hoops says, lifting his head up from resting on my chest. “My number is over a hundred,” he admits, guilt and shame flood his face…”but remember I played pro-ball.”

My mind starts to fill his bedroom with a hundred bodies, a hundred different vaginas – hmmm, maybe I should invest in a full body condom…wait, he said ‘over a hundred’ which probably means close to two hundred.

“Out of those hundred plus how many did you love?”

“One.”

“Oh.”

“And none of them spent the night.” he says, giving me a sly smile because I had just spent the night.

“So afterwards you would say what to them?”

“Do you want me to walk you to your car?”

“How Jersey Shore of you.”

“It’s not like they didn’t know what they were getting into.”

“What were they getting into?”

His head collapses on my chest with a sigh and he says in a defeated sort of way, “Now you are never going to sleep with me.”

I guess some women when faced with this information would be shocked or disgusted, considering Hoops had just turned 27…but I am not. Everyone has warned me about playing in this part of the pool, but sometimes you just can’t help yourself.

I love his honesty, his ability to look me straight in the eye and come clean. I don’t give a shit about his past as long as they stay in the past and I become his present and hopefully his future.

The things that happened or didn’t happen before you meet your “one” is what makes you appreciate them – makes you see that this is someone special.  I am thankful to all 100+ girls that marched in here before me because without them he might not have been able to recognize that I am the real mother fucking deal.

I pull his head up off my chest and look him straight in the eye, “I will if I love you.”

Hoops kind of smiles, but I can still see the shame in his eyes.

“Just don’t fuck this up.” I warn.

It is true. I don’t lie. Hoops has got a chance…WE have got a chance.

Some might say that Hoops and I are from two different worlds, with two different pasts and there will never be a common ground…to them I say don’t judge a book by its cover or a lover by their number because you might miss out on one of the greatest stories you’ve ever read.