On sex and vulnerability

So I just read somewhere that the average person has an average of eight sex partners in their lifetime and my first reaction was ” that’s just hoeing about.” then I thought about it and I realized that is not so bad. Plus, what really makes someone a whore? Like, I’m really asking. This question keeps me up at night, no kidding. I feel like someone’s body count doesn’t accurately represent their whole story. Plus, i’m one of those people who think people are fully souls, our bodies are just casings. So what if someone has a gentle spirit, a beautiful soul but life just pushes them into doing some sexually aggressive things, don’t you think it is a little harsh to call them whores? And speaking of beauty and souls, how cool would it be if our ideals on beauty were defined by souls and not faces, breasts, asses? I feel like that would eliminate almost all causes of self-esteem issues. Why hate your body if it your soul I am interested in? (Haha, that sounds like a threat) We wouldn’t have to worry about being overly sensitive, I mean if you called someone ugly, it is because they have a rotten soul. That doesn’t make you a jerk.

Anyway, my reason for this post was my thought process after I read this average-person-sex-partner-thing. I think the reason I was taken aback initially was because think having sex with someone requires a certain level of vulnerability. And if you know me, you know I absolutely freak out when I hear that word. Mary mother of God, I hate being vulnerable. I think on average it takes me two years to even show a hint of vulnerability to anyone. It is a good thing most people do not stick around that long. Why? Two reasons. First off, I strongly believe that most people, if not all will definitely take advantage of that. Second, I am dangerously intense, once I feel comfortable enough to be vulnerable with you, there is no going back. I’ll probably do and tell you everything short of handing you my soul on a plate. And trust me, if that was possible, I would do it. And on that note, I just want to show my appreciation to my roommate(partly because she has been subtly threatening to get all emotional on me if i didn’t at least mention her in my blog posts. Guys, I don’t feel very safe.) who bares with all my conversational segues. I almost always make everything deep, or passionate. Even things as simple as what we are cooking for supper.

I digress. What I am trying to say is that I am definitely not comfortable with being vulnerable to eight people. I feel like that is just leaving pieces of yourself everywhere. At the end of the day all you are left with is emptiness, and a void in your chest that even alcohol won’t fill. So what do you do when you get to that point? Do you have more sex? Drink more alcohol? Have drunken sex? Speaking of drunken sex, how does that work? Like when you are drunk, don’t you just want to text your ex, cry, then sleep? But maybe that’s just me,  I am only sexually attracted to someone, after I get to a certain emotional level with them. Unless that person is Miguel or Adam Levine. C’mon!! They are just so in your face. I have a Miguel problem. Like, when I am having a bad day, I just watch Miguel music videos. Always make me feel so much better. But i am talking about regular, real life people. A lot of times I’ll be with someone and we see a cute guy and they will get all graphic, but all that comes to mind is, “he’s cute.” Nothing more.

so yeah, I am not one-night stand kind of person. You know how they say, the only way to get over someone is to get under someone else? I firmly believe that is not literal. Because my idea of getting under someone else is having a deep, riveting conversation, pillow fights, dumb jokes, lame puns, watching re-runs of comedy series, sitting in silence, staring at the stars. I’m not the type to date a guy just because, I’m not kissing you just because, I’m not saying I like you just because. And I realize, that is a somewhat sad state for a college student. But that’s just who I am, I don’t do casual. I’m not gonna lie, sometimes it makes me a tiny bit sad. And I guess that’s okay.

So my blank soul won’t let me write.

.

I was just having a conversation with myself. And yes, I realize that is a weird thing to do, but hey, I have never denied my insanity. So basically, I was cross with myself for not writing as much. My excuse is I have been preoccupied with you know, life. But like I said it is just an excuse.  My main reason (and I had to bully myself to get myself to admit this) is I’m just blank. You could take that as lack of inspiration, or not just enough drive to work on my motivation, or even more directly, a crushing lack of words. But that is not it. Because I am that person who always has words whirling in mind. I am always constantly obsessing about something. So it is not that my mind is blank, it is more of my soul being blank. Does that even make sense?

Let me try to explain that. I believe in the concept of souls. I believe that that the human life is basically your brain trying to make some sense, maybe prioritize the yearnings of your soul, and maybe your heart trying to put some feeling to it. Though I have to say, I am not entirely comfortable with this last bit. See, I detest the notion that the human heart is for any other purpose than pumping blood. I know it is stupid and nonsensical, but thinking about it makes me feel pathetic, normal and cliché for absolutely no rational reason whatsoever. And I hate being normal. But I digress. My point was, I believe in giving life your best shot, especially when life gives you that one thing that you absolutely love doing. Because when you pour your soul into something, it is like imprinting your life onto infinity. It is a way of insuring your life as insignificant as it may be, against the tides of the universe, against the passing of time, against the forgetfulness of the human mind. It is basically, in a small way, ensuring you live forever. Because souls are forever, they transcend one lifetime and even when you are reincarnated into another lifetime, you are never forgotten, not completely. The person you become will more than once catch the glimpses, or dream or at least fantasize about the person you once were. And maybe it is crazy, but that is all I want from life.

And that is why I write. Because I want the piece of me that I love the most to live forever. Because let’s face it, other than that, I am going to live a pretty ordinary life.  We all do. And we like to pretend that we can make our lives as extraordinary as we want to but who are we kidding? All we really are trying to do is find a way to put food on the table. It is all our lives have been reduced to. And that is why I am so mad at myself for not writing as much as I could have for these past few months. But like I said, I have been a little blank lately. And blank is just my way of saying, numb and sore and empty and lifeless. Am I okay? Yes I am. Just not in the way that matters. And I am probably going to sound like a psychotic, ungrateful person looking for problems when I have absolutely none. But does anyone ever go through a phase, I am hoping it is a phase, when absolutely nothing happens it begins to bother you. When I say nothing, I mean nothing touches your core, nothing resonates with who you are. Because I have stuff going on, for starters, school is stressing me to the bone. I swear there are days I have considered deferring for a semester or two.  But I can deal with that. What I cannot deal with is how raw, but numb I feel. It is like feeling a pain that isn’t exactly there. You can feel it but you can’t explain it, let alone quantify it. It is this thought sitting at the back of your mind, constantly reminding you that you could pretend and stay positive all you want, but one day, it is going to come to the surface and you are going to have the roughest patch in a while. And you know what the worst part is, it is going to be triggered by the most uncorrelated of events, like your roommate forgetting to put ginger on your potatoes when she cooks.  It is having to sit here and feel a non-existent pain so deeply, it is scary.  It is having to nurse invisible, preemptive wounds. It is having to try not to lose your sanity. It is having to chase your sanity. It is wanting to catch a breath so badly.  It is not making sense in an entire blog post. It is having to pep talk myself into believing that I still am sane, somehow.