Let's Hear It For the Girls

Some of my best high school memories are of "girls' nights," where we'd sit in Amy's den and eat fondue and watch Patrick Swayze movies. Usually all this was followed by a bisected game of truth or dare ("Truth," as the case was) where we'd find out just a little too much about Jenny's love life. She enjoyed having sex with Josh in a mirrored bathroom where she could watch herself. Josh has an 8-inch penis and can autofellate. Jenny sort of left the group before we could hear about STDs and how she was having too much sex to pass into sophomore year of college. In any case, girls' nights were great. While I felt as though I'd spilled my guts about my elementary school homoerotic adventures and my early predilection toward masturbation in the first session or so, there was always more to talk about, and talk we did.

This year, Jess R. started a little weekly gathering where four of us girls would get together and eat a pizza dinner and gab. Alexandria floated in at the beginning and out at the middle, but this particular group solidified around the four of us: Jess, Lauren, Jen and myself. This weekend, Jen came up from Philly for a girls' reunion. We got together at Jess's house on Friday night, made pasta and watched Love Actually. Yesterday we got manicures/pedicures/massages, I went to Woodbury commons with Jen and Lauren for cheap and awesome Pumas, and we all reconvened at Lauren's for some Chinese food and half of three movies. Today was slaving, City Limits and The Wedding Crashers with Jen and Lauren. All so great.

I like these people a lot. Maybe it's because Jen and Lauren are, in some was, two of my biggest fans. I suppose that cheapens our relationship, so allow me to rephrase it: Jen and Lauren completely understand my humor and I love the form conversation takes when I'm around them. I'm at once intelligent and witty and silly and fun, and I feel them responding in kind. I react to them well, they react to me well, and we get into a great rapport. And, let's face it, I like looking into their eyes. No, no, not gazing romantically or any of that crap. They're just good at exchanging looks of understanding. Although to put myself just a step back in the red, it's not wholly different from what I enjoy in the men I like. The dynamic of looking into their eyes, them looking back, us laughing, is the entirety of what I find attractive. But with the men, I want to kiss them. With the girls, the buck stops at the conversation. (I almost wrote "the buck stops before the bucking starts." Should I have?)

This whole "public diary" thing is a little funky, because I'm somewhat unwilling to put down any truly personal information. I mean, SURE, my interest in gay porn, the fact that I naked-humped two of my best female friends on a regular basis in third grade, my elation when I found out that cunnilingus actually existed and it wasn't merely a creation of my masturbatory fantasy can all go up here, but these are practically universal knowledge! God, I hope potential future employers don't read this. Although I suppose that information is none too incriminating, if too much to swallow at a first glance. The problem with the public diary is not those bits of information, but more than I could never say I dislike someone I know or even overtly say that I have a crush on somebody I have a crush on, obvious as it may or may not be to that person and the rest of the world.

Anybody might be reading, and I don' t mind ANYBODY, I mind very, very specific people taking a glance at the blog and seeing my true feelings about them splayed out onto virtual paper. Or worse, they could see the fleeting sensation of the moment on the virtual paper and assume those were my true feelings. And perhaps more dangerous than my extreme feelings for people is my nonchalance toward others...people who would like to be slightly obsessed over or other people I should, in theory, despise. Perhaps I just don't care that much. Perhaps my personality tends so much toward the obsessive that my feelings toward my best friends are completely eclipsed by my feelings toward some cute guy who's certainly nice enough, who shares a delicious rapport with me and who, of course, has wonderfully sparkly eyes. But that guy doesn't joyously sacrifice hours every week he's near to be with me. I'm not the first one he comes to when he has problems or tickets. Those friends are! And that really should build our relationship. Damn you, evolution, for being so successful in putting my sexual and romantic interests above all else. And damn you more for giving me a hankerin' for men I can never have! Why blame my insecurities when I can blame evolution? Better it than my mother.