Sexual Chemistry — “It’s hot. It’s groovy, it’s great! Everyone should have it!
Romantic Infatuation — “Seeing your reflection in your lover’s eye MAKES YOU TEAR UP!”
“True romantic infatuation is pregnant with melancholy.”
Oh, Jason, I don’t know…you may have a point.
I wrote about Sexual chemistry once: http://www.theobserversvoice.com/2015/01/flashback-friday-chemistry/
You guys let me know how you feel about chemistry and infatuation. It’ll just be between you and me…
Carry on,
xox
The best part of this video is watching Jason giggle like an eight year old boy and then break into some Latin (like you do), while discussing The Kiss.
So, tell me, why do people kiss each other? Haven’t you asked yourself that question?
I have.
I remember a long time ago reading somewhere, I think relating to Kabbalah (an ancient and mystical form of Judaism), the high regard with which they held a kiss. They consider it a sacred act. It is an act so intimate that you are virtually “sharing” the breath of another person.
Knowing that marked me.
Today, the most widely accepted theory of kissing is that we humans do it because it helps us sniff out a quality mate. When our faces are close together, our pheromones “talk” – exchanging biological information about whether or not two people will make strong offspring.
Well, that’s just not sexy.
Here are some other fun facts I found:
Do any other animals kiss?
Save for the bonobos that suck on each other’s tongues for up to ten minutes at a time, there aren’t any animals that kiss. And are we really going to count a tongue-suck as a kiss anyway? Somehow, humans are actually the only species to kiss on the mouth, and the meanings of a kiss are plentiful.
Why do they call it a French kiss?
The term ‘French kiss’ – once also called a ‘Florentine kiss’ – is popularly considered to have been brought back to the English-speaking world by soldiers returning from Europe after World War I. At the time, the French had a reputation for more adventurous sexual practices, and so it happened that these soldiers returned to their sweethearts with some newly acquired “skills”.
That being said, with decades of dating under my belt, I became a bit of a connoisseur regarding kissing. There is a Goldilocks zone where kissing is concerned. I’m sure you’ll all agree with me on the fact that a bad kisser can kill even the best chemistry.
No tight, dry “butt pucker” lips.
No overly moist delivery that makes you want to wipe your face with the sleeve of your jacket.
No wide open “shark mouth” where your teeth bang together.
And my least favorite, the wild tongue thrusting where it feels like they’re looking for their car keys somewhere around your tonsils.
Ah, the kiss. Done well it makes me giggle and speak Latin too—how about you?
Carry on,
xox
Once upon a time, I was a hoe. Or least I had convinced myself that I was.
During my early twenties, I fell in and out of love—a lot! And by a lot I mean, weekly.
But there were two teeny, tiny, complications.
Number one: I mistook infatuation and lust, for love and…
Number two: I was married. So, there was that.
I’m sure the fact that I was completely and totally unhappily married lead me to look for greener pastures, but truth be told, lush green grass was EVERYWHERE I looked. As a matter of fact, I didn’t have to look for it—it found me. I seemed to unconsciously wander naked into field after green and luscious field of wild, verdant, grass.
Are you getting the thinly veiled sexy grass analogy? Yeah, I thought so.
Anyhow, I know that being a dissatisfied housewife summoned the greener pastures.
How do I know that?
Because less than two years after my divorce and a subsequent short-lived roll in the hay dalliance, I remained tragically single for eighteen years, half a dozen of which were grass-less and barren. The furthest, most opposite of lush green grass as you can get. Mohave Desert brown and dry.
Swollen tongue dry.
Severely chapped lips dry.
Camel toe dry.
Dry in every sense of the word—if you get my drift.
Nary a phone call nor a sideways glance came my way. Nothing. Zilch, zero, nada.
Crickets. The complete and total lack of interest expressed in me by the opposite sex was if I do say so myself…appalling.
I found myself single…and invisible.
When the occasional fellow (and I mean occasional, three in ten years), did decide to traverse the desert and ask me out, I responded like any dried up, thirsty nomad looking for her green oasis—I drank at the well of desperation as I clung to him by my sand filled fingernails—while my toes dialed the wedding planner.
I’m serious.
I had convinced myself that I couldn’t be trusted to make good decisions where men were concerned, after all, I had listened to lust and let a good one go.
Or so I thought.
What can I say? I was hallucinating, not in my right mind.
So, if a guy showed interest, and (gulp) I slept with him, I had to MARRY him. Right? Or at the very least buy matching his and hers snuggies and put a down payment on a condo—because that’s not terrifying to a man!
I was confiding this whacked-out way of thinking to a young friend the other day as anecdotal evidence that I was once under thirty-five, made a ton of questionable decisions, and had sex with men who didn’t propose. Hell, they didn’t even spend the night. Often, they ran shirtless out of my apartment and down the street to their car. Or I jumped out of a window and ran shoeless after their car…
What a mess. What a hot, hot mess. A promiscuous monogamist.
Anyway…
Then the craziest thing happened. She admitted to feeling that way too sometimes. (And here I thought that went out with big shoulder pads and even bigger Bon Jovi hair).
“So what did you do?” she asked, “How did you get out of thinking that every time you dated a guy—it HAD to lead to the big white dress?”
“I became a hoe” I chortled, the memory of it causing a dribble of coffee to come out of my nose.
She balked.
“Seriously! My best friend, the one with the great husband, finally lost her patience with me and my dating drama and ordered me to JUST DATE!”
My young friend was intrigued, “Go on”, she said with a quizzical look on her face.
“Well, my friend advised me to just play the field—have fun—lighten up—quit overthinking it—leave your phone with the Bridal Registry on speed dial…at home—and have sex like a man!”
My young friend leaned forward “What does that MEAN?”
I leaned in too “It is pretty vague, but I got the gist of what she meant. Have sex with the damn waiter. If he’s nice and there’s chemistry, and you’re both careful…go for it. You will probably not marry him—chances are, after two or three dates you may never see him again, but that’s okay.
You’ll know the right one.”
Now, that’s the way a woman has sex like a man—but it was the virtual permission slip I needed from someone who really knew me well—and I ran with it!
Listen, I’m not saying you should do this or anything else I ever write about but I will tell you this, my young friend ran toward a pasture that she was afraid to venture into and walked in some very tall, green grass this weekend—if you know what I mean.
Carry on,
xox
Once upon a time, I was a hoe. Or least I had convinced myself that I was.
During my early twenties, I fell in and out of love—a lot! And by a lot I mean, weekly.
But there were two teeny tiny complications.
Number one: I mistook infatuation and lust, for love and…
Number two: I was married. So, there was that.
I’m sure the fact that I was completely and totally unhappily married lead me to look for greener pastures, but truth be told, lush green grass was EVERYWHERE I looked. As a matter of fact, I didn’t have to look for it—it found me. I seemed to unconsciously wander naked into field after green and luscious field of wild, verdant, grass.
Are you getting the thinly veiled sexy grass analogy? Yeah, I thought so.
Anyhow, I know that being a dissatisfied housewife summoned the greener pastures.
How do I know that?
Because less than two years after my divorce and a subsequent short-lived roll in the hay dalliance, I remained tragically single for eighteen years, half a dozen of which were grass-less and barren. The furthest, most opposite of lush green grass as you can get. Mohave Desert brown and dry.
Swollen tongue dry.
Severely chapped lips dry.
Camel toe dry.
Dry in every sense of the word—if you get my drift.
Nary a phone call nor a sideways glance came my way. Nothing. Zilch, zero, nada.
Crickets. The complete and utter lack of interest expressed in me by the opposite sex was if I do say so myself…appalling.
I found myself single…and invisible.
When the occasional fellow (and I mean occasional, three in ten years), did decide to traverse the desert and ask me out, I responded like any dried up, thirsty nomad looking for her green oasis—I drank at the well of desperation as I clung to him by my sand filled fingernails—while my toes dialed the wedding planner.
I’m serious.
I had convinced myself that I couldn’t be trusted to make good decisions where men were concerned, after all, I had listened to lust and let a good one go.
Or so I thought.
What can I say? I was hallucinating, not in my right mind.
So, if a guy showed interest, and (gulp) I slept with him, I had to MARRY him. Right? Or at the very least buy matching his and hers snuggies and put a down payment on a condo—because that’s not terrifying to a man!
I was confiding this whacked-out way of thinking to a young friend the other day as anecdotal evidence that I was once under thirty-five, made a ton of questionable decisions, and had sex with men who didn’t propose. Hell, they didn’t even spend the night. Often, they ran shirtless out of my apartment and down the street to their car. Or I jumped out of a window and ran shoeless after their car…
What a mess. What a hot, hot mess. A promiscuous monogamist.
Anyway…
Then the craziest thing happened. She admitted to feeling that way too sometimes. (And here I thought that went out with big shoulder pads and even bigger Bon Jovi hair).
“So what did you do?” she asked, “How did you get out of thinking that every time you dated a guy—it HAD to lead to the big white dress?”
“I became a hoe” I chortled, the memory of it causing a dribble of coffee to come out of my nose.
She balked.
“Seriously! My best friend, the one with the great husband, finally lost her patience with me and my dating drama and ordered me to JUST DATE!”
My young friend was intrigued, “Go on”, she said with a quizzical look on her face.
“Well, my friend advised me to just play the field—have fun—lighten up—quit overthinking it—leave your phone with the Bridal Registry on speed dial…at home—and have sex like a man!”
My young friend leaned forward “What does that MEAN?”
I leaned in too “It is pretty vague, but I got the gist of what she meant. Have sex with the damn waiter. If he’s nice and there’s chemistry, and you’re both careful…go for it. You will probably not marry him—chances are, after two or three dates you may never see him again, but that’s okay.
You’ll know the right one.”
Now, that’s the way a woman has sex like a man—but it was the virtual permission slip I needed from someone who really knew me well—and I ran with it!
Listen, I’m not saying you should do this or anything else I ever write about but I will tell you this, my young friend ran toward a pasture that she was afraid to venture into and walked in some very tall, green grass this weekend—if you know what I mean.
Carry on,
xox
Okay. Now that I have your attention, what DOES sex have to do with manifestation?
Nothing and EVERYTHING.
Stay with me.
Here we go.
Think about something you want. Wait. Let’s use a sexier word. DESIRE. Something you desire.
Can you focus your attention on that thing for ten seconds straight? You’d be surprised how long that is AND I said straight, without interruption. That’s the thing with focus. It’s, it’s…elusive.
It gets away from you.
Unless it comes to sex.
MY sex to manifesting comparisons go something like this:
First you have to find something engaging. Something that gets your juices flowing—if you know what I mean.
Have you ever tried to have sex with someone you were not that into? Yeah, me neither.
Anyway…
Have you ever found yourself eyes wide open while they’re kissing you, searching their face or body for something appealing? You know, something to get you going?
When that didn’t work, did you find yourself racking your brain as to how it is that you have come to find yourself naked with this person?
Yeah, me too.
Here’s the thing. You’ll never manifest real happiness (or a happy ending), from something you have no passion for. You won’t have the stamina or the staying power.
You may as well play some gin rummy, or watch Game of Thrones. The end.
Then there’s the focus thing.
Focus is concentration on steroids and it is absolutely, positively necessary for the happy ending to occur.
Think I’m wrong?
Start messing around and then turn on cartoons.
Start taking off your clothes and then begin worrying “Did I leave the garage door open?”
Get right there, I mean right there, yes, yes! righhhhhttttt theeeerrrrreeeee!! and sneeze.
Get involved in some heavy foreplay and have your dog jump on the bed and lick your testicles.
Yeah, you know what I mean. When you lose your focus—things go…limp.
Game over.
The same thing happens when you’re thinking about that new job or project you’re excited about.
You can feel your pulse quicken when suddenly, out of left field comes your father’s voice telling you that it’s too risky, or you start to imagine all the reasons why your dream can’t possibly work.
Your focus is broken and your desire becomes…limp.
Stop. Drop. Go eat a sandwich instead.
So there you have it.
Passion, or at least excitement is required to be able to maintain an erection, focus.
Distraction kills focus and it’s easy to become distracted —except when it comes to sex.
The bottom line: It all boils down to sex. Sex and bacon.
Carry on, (That has suddenly taken on a whole new meaning)
xox
I was at a meditation the other day at the Self-Realization Fellowship Lake Shrine Temple.
They hold them at noon on Wednesdays and I happen to think they’re lovely. They are led by a different delightful monk who obviously drew the short straw at breakfast that morning. I say that because even though on any given Wednesday there are only between fifteen to thirty people, that is still a room full of men and women looking and listening to you, and that constitutes public speaking.
Public speaking is terrifying. It is the subject of most people’s nightmares. But when it is done well it is an art, and sadly, not one that these monks possess.
That’s okay, they’re monks for god sakes. Trying to teach an ancient form of focused concentration to twenty-first-century human beings is no picnic. There’s no slide presentation or inspirational music. There is not a lick of wit or charisma.
My guess is that if they had wit or charisma — they may have chosen a different career path.
Nevertheless, this past Wednesday did not disappoint. Our monk was a perfectly nice fellow, and from the sound of his accent, he was born in Germany or somewhere else in Bavaria. At one point in the meditation, just before entering the silent part, he instructed us in the droning tone of his motherland: “Jus bahsk in da peasful praysence of Scott.”
What? Who’s Scott?
My eyes shot open and darted around the room to see if anyone else had heard what I had?
Scott?
His low-toned, semi-melodic droning continued and I heard it again. “Comb baaack to Scott”
Ohhhhhh… God. He’s saying God! It’s his accent that makes it sound like Scott.
Wait, I kinda like that name for God.
I shut my eyes and tried to join the flow, but my mind was reeling.
That name could really work nowadays, you know, from a PR standpoint, and here’s why:
My Three Reasons To Call God Scott—
1) There are so many frickin’ names for the Divine One.
It can be so confusing and extremely politically incorrect. Choose a religion, take your pick. Adonai, Yahweh, Jehovah, The Almighty, the Universe. Scott would tidy things up, unite everybody and keep the zealots from getting all hot under the turban.
2) Scott feels so…current. So…mid 2015. It makes God sound kinda hip; grown-up but accessible. It’s less polarizing than say, Piper, Keanu or River and friendlier than Zoltar.
3) In the Bible, God instructed the Israelites to avoid using his name (kind of like The Artist Formally Known as Prince), in a useless, disrespectful way. Instead, the Israelites were supposed to revere the name of God and use it in a serious, considerate way. Many of the ancient Israelites were so respectful of the name of God that they would not even pronounce it or write it for fear of using it in vain.
(My first name ain’t baby, It’s Janet, Miss Jackson if your nasty). Those who did write it would often throw away the quill they had used, because they thought that any quill that had written God’s name was holy and should not be used for regular words.
Taking this to the most absurdly literal place imaginable, Dr. John Hagee, the founder and senior pastor of the Cornerstone Church in San Antonio, Texas, not only agrees with what the Good Book says, but also takes the faith to a level of fanaticism.
Asked how the situation could be bettered, Hagee replied: “Well, we’d have to start with ourselves, as with everything in life. If you’re asking about my personal opinion, there is no greater sin in terms of wrongly using God’s name than women who use it during sex. That is one of the filthiest, most derogatory and sinful uses of the Lord’s name I can think of. If it were up to me, I would put every single woman or girl (wtf?) who does that in jail.”
I would bet my house on the fact that Reverend Hagee himself has never heard that word used during sex–but he’s heard that it happens and he wants it stopped!
Oh, and by the way, jail is not the place to end that practice. Just sayin’.
So you see, Scott would work beautifully here. All parties would be up to speed when the woman yelled “Oh Scott; go Scott; give it to me Scott!” just before reaching ecstasy. No harm, no foul, nobody’s offended, nobody has to be incarcerated.
Hey, and if the guy’s name was Scott, well, that’s just a synchronistic bonus.
I think you can agree with me, now that I’ve made such a convincing and compelling argument, that we should change God’s name to Scott. So how do we start? Does anyone know who we talk to first?
Carry on,
xox
Love, lust or any other addiction.
It hijacks the brain and its ability to reason, the mouth and it’s ability to bargain, a vagina for obvious reasons; and is apparently able to override a fear of heights.
In the mid eighties I left my husband. We had a perfectly lovely life — just absolutely NO sexual chemistry…and I wanted some. BAD.
I read about it in books. I saw it in the movies. I dreamt of it and fantasized about it; this elusive beast, and being that I was in my twenties, I was damned if I was going to live a life without it.
Cut to: 1985 — Sharing a dive apartment in drug infested hookerville, with my little sister who had just left our father’s cushy home to find her way out from under his thumb and forge her own independence.
It was Flashdance meets Friends — only without the great clothes, the sexy dancing and the killer apartment.
My sister had moved a saltwater fish tank up two flights of stairs only to have the summer be so fucking Africa hot on the second floor; in the Valley; with no air conditioning; that even after trying to cool it off with trays of ice cubes — eventually all the fish cooked.
Later, after she’d emptied most the water and cleaned the green slime off the glass, and since we had no entertainment budget, we organized races with little plastic wind up swimmers from the novelty stores on Ventura Boulevard. Frogs, Snorkelers, a fat man in an inner tube whose legs furiously tread water; even an alligator doing the backstroke.
These were real races. Beers were guzzled. Bets were placed. Money may have exchanged hands.
I’m telling’ ya it was the wild west inside that toasty little shit-hole with the sticky green shag carpet in North Hills.
After the Feds shut down the toy races, we floated three basket balls in the tank.
It was art.
Speaking of art, one morning when I was getting my fried, I mean permed, blonde hair nice and Bon-Jovi gigantic, my blow dryer gave out from exhaustion. The eighties were a rough time for blowdryers…and hairspray. My sister and I could go though a case a week.
Anyway, my blow dryer started throwing blue sparks, and inside of a small unventilated bathroom full of Sebastian Hair Fix fumes, well, the whole apartment could have ignited — blowing us all to kingdom come.
Since only half my head was coiffed, I finished with my sister’s very upscale blow dryer and hung my little flame thrower from a plant hook in the corner of the dining room.
At night we would turn off all the lights and plug it in; then sit and watch that thing shoot blue sparks into the air — because it was art.
It was beautiful and dangerous art. We just had to be diligent about keeping our hair a safe distance away.
How we’re not both dead is beyond me.
Which leads me to the window in my room.
It was rectangular, running from floor to ceiling and was narrow, about the width of an average person. Because it was so freakin’ hot, even with my fear of heights, I would sit on a towel (there was no way I was going to let my ass touch that disgusting carpet) next to the window at night and read, paint my toe nails or talk on the phone.
I talked on the phone a lot.
You see, I had fallen hard for a much younger boy/man who had lived with us for one glorious summer and then gone off to college (yes, that young). I pined for him something awful, so we’d talk on the phone late into the night, he from Cal State Long Beach and me in front of that window, smoking cigarettes, searching for a breeze.
That window became like a portal.
All sorts of weird shit happened around that window.
It just so happens that there was a street light directly below, one of the few in the hood that hadn’t been blown out. I always tried to park my car under that light, you know, for safety, although thinking back I’m not sure why I bothered. Anything valuable had been stolen off of, or out of, my piece of shit Mazda within the first month we lived there. Parked under the street light — in full view of that window.
Late one hot summer night, the three of us were startled awake by the sound of shouting and car engines. Of course we went to the window to see what was up. My sister soon joined us, all the noise had woken her up but she couldn’t see the activity from her uneventful, non portal window.
Our three sleepy, middle-of-the-night faces were now wide awake and fascinated, silently poised right above all the action as we watched more and more police cars surround a vehicle with two men inside. Soon a police canine unit and tow truck joined the crowd. “Drug bust” my boy-toy whispered.
We watched for hours as they carefully and methodically stripped the car down to its skeleton. The seats, the dash, the inside liner — they had this down to a science.
We got snacks; we took potty breaks; all the while staying quiet enough to be eyewitnesses to a potential drug bust. Then, just as we were beginning to lose interest, and it seemed as if the drugs didn’t exist, we heard a cop yell, like they do on TV, “Bingo!” and fifty cops descended onto the metal frame, like ants at a picnic. There it was, bag after bag of some illegal substance, hidden in the dark recesses of that car’s guts. They hauled the two guys away and it was all over, as if it had never happened — in fifteen minutes.
Yeah, I know, great neighborhood. Not really, it was the site of drug deals, used condoms and hookers, Oh My!
Another evening, as I waited for my sister to get home with pumpkin pie (we both worked at Vons at the time, so we’d call the one who was working late, right before their shift was over, with junk food cravings), I was sitting next to the window, writing a letter to my beloved — yes, with paper and a pen — when I thought I heard moaning.
Now, moaning was a regular occurrence in our apartment. We had a couple with a very active sex life that shared a wall. She was a moaner and he had white-boy rhythm as evidenced by the intermittent, uncoordinated frenzy of headboard banging that used to make us howl with laughter.
But this moaning sounded different — like a wounded animal.
I turned down the TV that was always on to keep me company; and listened. Just below the window was a balled up something on the dead, dried up grass under the street light.
I decided to investigate.
I put on my dime store flip-flops, took my keys to the security gates with me, and walked down two flights of stairs to the street below. It was just slightly cooler outside than inside the apartment but still around eighty degrees — an Indian Summer night in the Valley.
As I slowly closed the gate by hand behind me so it wouldn’t slam (a habit), I could still hear a low moaning. Walking slowly toward the street light, I still couldn’t figure out who or what was there. It was rolled up tight into the fetal position, small; like a dog… or a child? I remember it was beige, the color of skin. Could it be a person?
“Hello?…are you okay?” I ventured closer.
“Do you need…” I screamed and reflexively jumped back.
“Oh my God…” I kept backing away slowly, terrified and unsure of what to do.”I’m, I’m, I’m going upstairs to call 911!”
Her face (I didn’t know it was a woman until later), looked up at me, toward the sound of my voice. Her ear was missing, replaced by shredded skin. I knew she couldn’t see me, her eyes were purple and swollen shut, and her face didn’t resemble anything human. It looked like a hideous Halloween mask.
I ran so fast I flew out of my flip-flops.
No such thing as cell phones in those days, so I sprinted back up to the apartment, made eerie by the juxtaposition of the TV laugh track and the scene on the street below as I dialed 911. The phone was on the floor in front of the window and I watched her like a hawk the whole time. I was shaking so hard it took me three tries to dial 911 correctly.
A squad car pulled up before I even had a chance to speak. I hung up, turned off all the lights in the room and watched from my second story perch as they slowly, cautiously, got out of the car and walked toward her. One cop poked her with a stick and when she moved and looked at up them — even they flinched. The other cop was calling it in as his partner crouched down to talk to her. The paramedics and a fire truck were there in minutes and I watched, nervously biting my nails, from my dark window as they took her pulse, assessed her injuries, loaded her almost totally naked body onto a gurney and took her away. My sister got home just about that time, “What’s all the commotion down there?” she asked.
It took me a minute to gain my composure. “I’ll tell you over pie” I replied.
As the story goes, and I can’t quite recall how we got this information; the woman was a regular at one of the local dive bars peppered throughout our neighborhood. The drunker she got the more she bragged about getting a big bonus at work. As she bought round after round of drinks, she exposed a thick wad of bills that was like fresh meat to the low-life wolves at the bar. Apparently, as she walked to her car, under the safety of the street light, two of the animals beat her in order to get her purse (which she fought to keep, ladies, don’t ever do that, just let them have it). She fought so hard they practically pulled her clothes off — both of her hands sustained multiple fractures. The last I heard she was hospitalized with a cracked skull, and in need of massive plastic surgery.
It happened right under my window, under the street light, and I never heard a thing.
Why didn’t we move?
Last but not least is the story about the time I jumped out that window. That second story window. To chase after a boy.
“I loved him somethin’ awful” If someone says that, believe them…it was awful.
I had, at long last, found me some chemistry. It burned hot, and was highly combustible, constantly boiling over like those science experiments gone awry.
My whole body was on fire. I was consumed by lust which I was calling love, because honestly, I didn’t know any better.
My brain went offline.
My mouth said things that still, to this day, make me cringe. It bargained and begged.
I was reduced to a writhing pile of pheromones and sex organs. He was a beautiful disaster.
When this boy/man said he had to leave after spending three days straight in bed with me; well, I went a little berserk. I couldn’t see my way clear of the crazy.
I stumbled to the window over the dirty dishes, coffee cups, bags of chips and piles of clothes that had surrounded and sustained us that entire weekend.
It was over and he had to go back — to school — cringe.
I heard his car pull away as I got a running start and literally flew, in one giant leap, through the screen and out that portal/ window without thinking.
“Noooooooooooooo! Don’t go!” I screamed in mid-air. The large rectangular screen made it to the ground first in a twisted mess. I managed to clear a shrub and stick a nice tuck-n-roll landing, but that still didn’t bring me to my senses.
It’s amazing I wasn’t hurt; clearly people that stupid are indestructible — That does not bode well for the gene pool.
My screaming continued to echo outside and around the block.
“Don’t leave, not yet!” I got up as fast as I could and ran out into the street, where I could barely see his tail lights at the corner.
“Waaaaaait!!!!!” I wailed at the top of my lungs and sprinted as fast as could after his car and out of my flip-flops (what is the deal with that?)
I’d obviously lost my sanity and my shoes, and now I was losing my voice but it didn’t matter, I continued to scream his name at the top of my lungs until I saw him pull into the Seven Eleven parking lot around the block — the one just before the entrance to the 405 freeway.
When I saw his face I knew I’d gone too far.
Who was I? What had come over me?
I was bent over, trying to catch my breath while he sat in his car looking stunned.
When I could finally manage to speak all I could say was, “I’m sorry…I just…this is so NOT sexy; right?”
He shook his head slowly, got out of the car, gave me a mediocre hug, got back in the car and drove away.
As I took the slow walk of shame back to the apartment I could see the crumpled screen lying dead on the sidewalk, but there was no sign of my flip-flops.
Someone; some other size seven; had stolen them while I’d made a fool of myself — chasing after a man in a car — barefoot — for no good reason other than addiction.
That stunt shocked me…finally!
To say it was not my proudest moment is an understatement.
I learned so much about myself that day; what I was capable of, how, if I let my vagina make all the decisions I could really get hurt since in her narrow-minded focus on chasing desire, she had little regard for my personal safety — and that we needed to get the hell out of that apartment.
It changed me, I started thinking about self worth, boundaries and personal responsibility so that nothing even remotely like that would happened again.
I blame that fucking portal/window.
Okay. So who here hasn’t done a crazy-ass window jump in one form or another in their life — show of hands? Uh huh, I thought so.
Tell me about it below.
Carry on,
xox
Chemistry
chem·is·try
ˈkeməstrē/
noun
1. the branch of science that deals with the identification of the substances of which matter is composed; blah, blah, blah, more scientific jargon.
2. the complex (understatement) emotional or psychological interaction between two people.
“their affair was triggered by intense sexual chemistry” (THAT’S the one I’m takin’ about.)
synonyms: affinity (not) attraction ( attraction is to chemistry, what propane is to rocket fuel) rapport (weak) spark ( ha! that’s putting it mildly)
“there was a chemistry between them” (…and they didn’t sleep for a week)
So, after the post about my lapse of good judgement due to some “intense sexual chemistry”,
I decided to give this elusive beast more thought; seeing that it can ruin our lives and such.
So what is chemistry anyway?
If I knew the answer to that, well, I would be bottling it and living on my private island with all the subjects of my “research.”
There are studies that chalk it up to smell, to pheromones. According to the dictionary, Pheromones are chemicals, hormones, capable of acting outside the body of the secreting individual to impact the behavior of the receiving individual.
In other words, little invisible sexual secret agents, that overrule all common sense, decorum and self-respect. They blindside us, leaving us slaves to our lady parts.
Men, I suppose you can blame your struggles with self-control on chemistry and pheromones – but what’s your excuse the rest of the time? – just sayin’.
Tweet: People that say they don’t “believe” in chemistry, have never experienced it.
Right?
I just felt the slow, collective, nod of thousands of heads.
I mean, it can strike you when you least expect it.
It’s a form of sexual terrorism, with the MOST wicked sense of humor.
Chemistry has no conscience, that I know for sure.
It seems it’s the strongest with the most inappropriate people; at the most inopportune times.
Haven’t you ever locked eyes across a crowded party with…the cater waiter?
Come on! I know it’s not just me!
What about the guy in the Home Depot outdoor department? Or the beautiful man in Starbucks?
A friend of mine locked eyes with a stunning, young woman, on an airplane, seated in first class.
He was walking down the aisle to his cheapest of the cheap seats, in the waaaaay back of bitch/coach.
He knew she felt the chemistry too when she walked all the way to the back of the plane to use the restroom, forgoing all the comforts of the first class potty, just to flirt with him.
They exchanged magazines, book titles, recipes and phone numbers, gossiping and giggling like two teenage girls, and annoying everyone around him, late into the night.
The pheromones were so strong, she had to be warned sternly, several times, to go back to her first class seat during turbulence.
Sadly, she was met at the gate by a much older husband and three little kids – and my friend is gay.
Hey, I’ve already told you, chemistry knows no boundaries.
My philosophy is this:
Feel the chemistry. Marvel at it. Admire it even. Then walk away.
Except if you’re single, some chemistry is a must have in any relationship, because, take it from me – if it’s not there, the first time you get a whiff of it; you’ll bolt.
My heart still flips over when my husband enters a room. Not every time – but most of the time.
Listen, mark my words; that wild, mad, leave your wife, make bad decisions, rip your clothes off in public, kind of chemistry does NOT make for good RELATIONSHIPS.
Relationships require some intellect, intimacy and love.
Chemistry is not to be mistaken for love. Ever.
Pheromone fueled chemistry rules the region south – of – the – border; if you catch my drift.
It’s the stuff of books and movies and it NEVER works out in the end. Trust me.
Knowing the difference can save you a lifetime of hurt.
Sympathetic kiss,
Xox
Have you got a juicy chemistry story for me?
* A few of you emailed me over the holidays with posts you thought should have been on the most popular list (I swear it wasn’t fixed, it’s analytics my friends).
This was one of those. Enjoy!
<
All the world’s a stage,
And all the men and women merely players;
They have their exits and their entrances,
And one man in his time plays many parts.
~William Shakespeare
On top of writing this blog, putting together my book, my women’s group and modeling for Victoria’s Secret, I’m also birthing,(with my composer friend Les) a Broadway musical. (One of those may not be true – can you guess which one?)
It’s been such an interesting process and I’ll tell you why.
We have the whole story in our minds, we just have to get the characters to say, sing and do all right things to make that story come alive.
We’ve spent the last nine months letting the characters tell us who they are (their back story) so we can write the dialogue and songs that will suit them.
We HAVE to know their motivation before one word is spoken.
A favorite saying of mine is: even the villain has total conviction and thinks he’s doing the right thing.
When you think like that, it brings compassion, and the words that appear on the page never have a false note; they always ring true. (That, and a chocolate chip cookie sacrifice to my Muse every Friday as we brainstorm really helps.)
Imagine if we did that with our lives.
If we questioned our motivation with compassion, making sure to say and do the things that will move us forward in life.
If we could reverse engineer our paths and never make a false move.
Impossible right? And we really wouldn’t want to bypass some of those mistakes because they did lead us here, but…
You know when you’re engrossed in a movie and the main character, who you’ve fallen for, big time, does something stupid?
They cuss out a co-worker and get fired, they choose the dangerous, douchy guy over the boring sweet guy, they sleep with a married man, they spend all their money on shoes, they drink and dial their ex, or they stand in front of the fridge at midnight finishing their kid’s birthday cake?
Don’t you just want to yell at the screen and throw popcorn? “NO! Don’t go there! Stop it! That is SO CLEARLY the wrong move! Ugh, now you’ve done it. How are you going to get out of that?”
Think Liz Gilbert (Julia Roberts) in Eat, Pray, Love, when she meets the young, boy toy actor (James Franco) and starts a fling, right on the heels of her divorce.
“No Liz, Don’t do it! Take some time alone. Don’t go there. He’s not right for you… Shit.”
You just know how that’s gonna end. We can all understand, we’ve been there.
It’s the sex – the blood leaves your brain, and it’s always phenomenal with completely inappropriate people.
It’s one of life’s great mysteries.
I have an exercise that I use in the woman’s group, to try to see the wrong moves before you make them, and I think it’ll help you with your future choices.
It’s a trick to get you to live more consciously.
Imagine your life as a movie. Right now.
In full HD color, on the big screen and YOU, are the star! (played by Kate Winslet or Reese Witherspoon, George Clooney or Hugh Jackman).
You can view, from afar, in your seat in the theatre, all the options in front of you and watch as the character (you) makes their choices.
Are you watching YOU take some chances, have adventures, fall in love, laugh and have fun? Or are YOU miserable, on unemployment, being a sad sack, staying in bed, eating cheesecake?
Are you yelling “yes! Great decision!” or “No! Turn around and walk away!”
Remember, You are extremely fond of YOU (hopefully) and you only want the best.
If viewed on the big screen, how are YOU doing?
Are you avoiding the pitfalls and dick-heads, or are you going for the instant gratification? (the great sex with the wrong people)
Pulling back and watching the movie of my life has helped me immeasurably in my decision-making. Sometimes I just shake my head, and other times I smile.
I’m really rooting for me.
One of my friends imagines herself atop an impossibly high mountain and looks down at the overview of her life. She’s done it for years and it helps her so much to gain a better perspective.
I love that.
Think about this the next time you come to a crossroads.
We all know deep down what’s right for us. What would you want the YOU in the movie to do?
I’m rooting for YOU.
Much Love,
Xox
Chemistry
chem·is·try
ˈkeməstrē/
noun
1. the branch of science that deals with the identification of the substances of which matter is composed; blah, blah, blah, more scientific jargon.
2. the complex (understatement) emotional or psychological interaction between two people.
“their affair was triggered by intense sexual chemistry” (THAT’S the one I’m takin’ about.)
synonyms: affinity (not) attraction ( attraction is to chemistry, what propane is to rocket fuel) rapport (weak) spark ( ha! that’s putting it mildly)
“there was a chemistry between them” (…and they didn’t sleep for a week)
So after yesterday’s post about my lapse of good judgement due to some “intense sexual chemistry”, I decided to give this elusive beast more thought; seeing that it can ruin our lives and such.
So what is chemistry anyway?
If I knew the answer to that, well, I would be bottling it and living on my private island with all the subjects of my “research.”
There are studies that chalk it up to smell, to pheromones. According to the dictionary, Pheromones are chemicals, hormones, capable of acting outside the body of the secreting individual to impact the behavior of the receiving individual.
In other words, little invisible sexual secret agents, that overrule all common sense, decorum and self respect. They blind side us, leaving us slaves to our lady parts.
Men, I suppose you can blame your struggles with self control on chemistry and pheromones – but what’s your excuse the rest of the time? – just sayin’.
People that say they don’t “believe” in chemistry, have never experienced it.
Right?
I just felt the slow, collective, nod of thousands of heads.
I mean, it can strike you when you least expect it.
It’s a form of sexual terrorism, with the MOST wicked sense of humor.
Chemistry has no conscience, that I know for sure.
It seems it’s the strongest with the most inappropriate people; at the most inopportune times.
Haven’t you ever locked eyes across a crowded party with…the cater waiter?
Come on! I know it’s not just me!
What about the guy in the Home Depot outdoor department? Or the beautiful man in Starbucks?
A friend of mine locked eyes with a stunning, young woman, on an airplane, seated in first class.
He was walking down the aisle to his cheapest of the cheap seats, in the waaaaay back of bitch/coach.
He knew she felt the chemistry too, when she walked all the way to the back of the plane to use the restroom, forgoing all the comforts of the first class potty, just to flirt with him.
They exchanged magazines, book titles, recipes and phone numbers, annoying everyone around him; late into the night.
The pheromones were so strong, she had to be warned sternly, several times, to go back to her first class seat during turbulence.
Sadly, she was met at the gate by a much older husband and three little kids – and my friend is gay.
Hey, I’ve already told you, chemistry knows no boundaries.
My philosophy is this:
Feel the chemistry. Marvel at it. Admire it even. Then walk away.
Except if you’re single, some chemistry is a must have in any relationship, because, take it from me – if it’s not there, the first time you get a wiff of it; you’ll bolt.
My heart still flips over when my husband enters a room. Not every time – but most of the time.
Listen, mark my words; that wild, mad, leave your wife, make bad decisions, rip your clothes off in public, kind of chemistry does NOT makes for good RELATIONSHIPS.
Relationships require some intellect, intimacy and love.
Chemistry is not to be mistaken for love. Ever.
Pheromone fueled chemistry rules the region south – of – the – border; if you catch my drift.
It’s the stuff of books and movies and it NEVER works out in the end. Trust me.
Knowing the difference, can save you a lifetime of hurt.
Sympathetic kiss,
Xox
Have you got a juicy chemistry story for me?
