Pity Sex

When I met Nathan, I was hungover. It was a midday hangover from cheap champagne consumed at Sunday brunch with my family. As is the case with many dysfunctional families, I find mine much more tolerable with a few (or several) drinks in me. After brunch, I fell asleep for a few hours, and woke up around 5, disgusted at myself for sleeping away the day. I went online, and found Nathan, a man I had exchanged a handful of emails with over the past week. He hadn’t made much of an impression on me, but he was semi-goodlooking and polite. When I told him about my day, he suggested we meet for beer and pizza. I didn’t have anything better to do, and beer and pizza sounded perfect, so I took a shower and met him.

Nathan had the potential to be a hot guy. He was tall, blond, kind of scruffy, with an okay body. But there was just something blah about him. He wore light-colored baggy jeans, which I found to be very uncool; and a pullover sweatshirt from the college we were both alumni of. This isn’t the look I’m into. I’m usually into hipster-ish/rock n’ roll kind of guys; or, at the other end of the spectrum guys with kind of a button-downed look. I figured this was a last minute date for pizza and beer in a very casual place, so I could forgive his outfit. I wore my standard first date look: heels, tight jeans, semi-low cut top (sexy, but not slutty).

Like his outfit, I found Nathan a little bit boring. He was three years younger than me, but I had lied and shaved four years off my age, so he actually thought he was a year older than me. I’m not sure why, but I used to do shit like that all the time. Even when a guy was 20 years older than me, I almost never told anyone my real age. When I was active in my addiction, meeting guys from online for a drink or dinner was pretty much my only social life. I’d had an okay time with Nathan was grateful that he had saved me from an otherwise dreary Sunday, so I agreed to see him again.

For our second date, Nathan picked me up and we went to an Italian restaurant that I chose. Nathan was one of those dudes who would ask you out a on a date, but then do no prep work. He’d show up and be like, “So… what do you want to do?” I’m sure I’m not alone in finding guys who can’t be bothered to actually plan a date really unattractive. Again, he wore light-colored jeans and a pullover sweatshirt from our Alma Mater. Different, but the same. Every time I saw Nathan he had on a variation of this outfit. Another irritating thing about Nathan is that he would keep his cell-phone on the table and be texting and sending emails during dinner. I remember thinking, What the fuck could this boring-ass square being texting about that is so freaking interesting? I would ask him who and what he was texting about not because I really gave a shit, but because I had nothing else to ask him. His answers were so uncompelling, that I can’t remember them now, and probably wasn’t able to remember them 5 minutes after he told me.

I kept going out with Nathan, because he kept asking me. I kept thinking maybe he would grow on me. After our third date, Nathan still hadn’t put the moves on me. He hadn’t even tried to kiss me. Well… he had given me some long hugs and looked at me like he wanted me to kiss him, but I really didn’t care enough to go take the lead. Everything about poor Nathan shouted “bottom,” and I’m not much of a top.

On our fourth date Nathan finally took some initiative and suggested we rent a movie and order a pizza. While, not the most original plan, I remember thinking, Finally! Maybe I’ll like him better once we fuck. But no fucking happened that night. He did finally kiss me, though, and he was a fairly good kisser. We spent the whole night on my couch cuddling, and kissing. Nathan didn’t get any bolder than sticking his hand up my shirt to rub my back. Again, he kept looking at me like he wanted ME to put the moves on HIM. If after buying me dinner four times, Nathan still didn’t have the balls to put his hand on my tit, I wasn’t going to help him out. At the end of this date, I decided I couldn’t take another night of Nathan looking at me longingly, like a timid high school virgin wanting her boyfriend to finger-bang her, but too afraid to ask. I was done going out with this boy.

But a few nights later, Nathan texted me with some bad news. He’d been laid off from his job, and was, understandably, quite upset. He asked if he could come over and have a few beers with me. I’d already had a few, so I let him come over. After a few more beers, I decided that I owed Nathan sex. I’d let him buy me dinner four times and hadn’t even given him as much as a hand job. Also, the poor boy had just lost his job.

I started taking off my clothes while he was kissing me and he followed suit. I remember thinking that his penis, which was on the smaller side of average, reminded me of a piece of raw chicken breast. As a nearly life-long vegetarian, this visual made me want to throw-up. I didn’t even attempt to go down on Nathan, but he went down on me and did a pretty lack-luster job of it. Let’s just get this over with, I was thinking when I handed him a condom. When he was inside of me, I couldn’t even look at him. I put my head to the side, and then eventually gave up even trying to look like I was into it, and just put my arm over my eyes. Why the fuck am I doing this! I was thinking. That and, What am I going to say to let him down easy? He kept asking me if I was okay. “Yes! Just cum already!” I wanted to shout. But instead I said, “I’m fine.” I felt bad for Nathan that I couldn’t even do a convincing job of pretending I was enjoying myself.

The next day he sent me a text to say he’d had a nice time. I told him I had as well, but I was having a hard time getting over my ex and didn’t feel like I was ready for a relationship yet. Clueless up until the end, Nathan actually asked me if I just wanted to be “friends with benefits.” I didn’t understand how anyone could possibly want a repeat of sex that was that bad. I lied and told him that I didn’t do “friends with benefits,” that I wasn’t that kind of girl.

Looking back on my experience with Nathan, I’m disgusted by what I did. I chose to tell this story with Nathan, but I could have told the same one with three or four different guys. Other times where I just laid back like a limp doll, staring at the celling letting some man I had zero feelings for, attraction to, or chemistry with fuck me because I felt an obligation to give him sex. One of “The Twelve Signs of Recovery in SLAA” is, “We learn to value sex as a by-product of sharing, commitment, trust and cooperation in a partnership.” Going forward, and with the help of my Higher Power, I will never again have sex with someone I feel so dispassionately towards. I will never have  it out of a sense of pity or obligation.

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Don Draper? I Think Not.

Jon Hamm as Don Draper on AMC's Mad Men

I had a low-key, yet lovely Thanksgiving holiday this year.

Last year’s celebration was a bigger affair. I went out of town for an extended family get-together. Although I had a lot of fun with my relatives, the thing that stands out the most from that trip was the relentless texts I kept receiving from a man I’ll call, “Creepy Daddy,” and all the maneuvers I had to preform to keep my cell phone and these creepy texts away from my young cousins who kept wanting to play with my phone.

“Creepy Daddy” isn’t a great pseudonym, because it could apply to at least half-a-dozen other men from my past, but that’s all I can think of right now, so let’s just go with it.

I met Creepy Daddy on a BDSM site. He had a couple of tightly cropped face photos and a well-written profile. As an opening he sent an email about the show Mad Men, saying that my pictures reminded him of one of the characters from that show and how he fancied himself a modern-day Don Draper. Today if some dude told me that he sees Don Draper as a role-model, I would probably run the other direction. A year ago, though; rich, powerful, successful, good-looking, smooth and dominant Don Draper was my shallow ideal. A side note: I briefly thought about using the pseudonym “Don” for Creepy Daddy, but, as you’ll soon find out, the name doesn’t really apply.

Mad Men is one of my favorite shows and Creepy D’s email was clever and charming so I sent him my phone number.  He called me a few minutes later. He told me that he was calling me from the lobby of a movie theater, where he was watching some kid movie with his eight-year-old twin sons. I found the fact that he must have been sitting in this kids’ movie with his sons using his smartphone to email girls on a fetish site slightly disturbing, and the fact that he left his kids alone in the theater to call me even more so. Actually, I find all that disturbing now, but at the time I was thinking; Wow. He must really like me. 

The next day we talked on the phone for a looooong time. I have ADHD and long phone calls can make me pretty restless, but Creepy D was impossible to get off the phone. The conversation would wind down and I’d say I have to go, then Creepy D would start on a new topic and wind it right up again. We spent almost all day on the phone… at least that’s what it felt like.

We ended up having phone sex. Phone sex was one of my favorite past times back then, but phone sex with Creepy D consisted of lots of sexy (to him)/shuddersome (to me) baby talk. “Let Dada touch your pretty little cunny,” later followed by, “Give Daddy your cummy;” are two of the ickiest lines that I remember. Creepy D also constantly talked about his ex, whom he was obsessed with (not like I’m in any place to call someone out on his obsessions). She was 18, and he payed her college tuition and rent for her. He also fondly recalled that she would introduce him to her friends as her father. He hoped some day he could do this with me. He was only about 15 years older than me, but I look young. When I was meeting guys online, especially ones into this particular fetish, I would frequently shave about five years off of my age.

After a week or two, I met Creepy D for dinner. He took me to an expensive restaurant that I had always wanted to try. I know this sounds awful, but when I saw him, I was a little embarrassed to be there with him. First of all, he had totally misrepresented himself physically. In all fairness, I am a Size 16 living in a town where the beauty ideal is a Size 2. However, when meeting guys online, I always made sure to clearly represent what I look like and to send several full-length pictures. He was not what I was expecting, and I was not attracted to him. The second reason I was embarrassed was by his outfit. He was well-dressed… if you consider getting dressed up like a dandy  going to a cotillion, to go to a restaurant where every other dude is wearing business casual, well-dressed. He told me previously that Don Draper was his style icon, but he was dressed more like Nucky Thompson (a plus-sized version) from Boardwalk Empire. If our date was taking place in prohibition era Atlantic City, he would have looked dapper; but in 2010 he looked like he was wearing a Halloween costume.

Steve Buscemi as Nucky Thompson in HBO's Boardwalk Empire

Although he wasn’t my cup of tea, Creepy D was pleasant enough. He also ordered two very nice bottles of wine, which helped make the evening more palatable. Also, he kept doing this thing where he would offer to take me to some event and then say, “Of course, I’ll take you shopping beforehand to buy you a new outfit” or, “I don’t think your apartment is in a very safe neighborhood, we’ll have to look into getting you a place in a more secure building.” He kept talking about all the stuff he would buy for me. I have always considered myself a feminist (even when I was heavy into being a submissive) so the idea of being a kept woman didn’t sit well with me; but at the same time I’m a cheapskate who likes nice stuff I can seldom afford. With this in mind, I agreed to see him again.

Soon after that I had to go out of town for Thanksgiving, then Creepy D had to go out of town for work, then I went out of town for Christmas. He also had custody of his kids every other weekend. During this time we kept in touch with loooong phone conversations that I found almost unbearable. He kept up the gross sexual baby talk, but also talked a lot about all the stuff he was going to buy me. While I never encouraged this talk, I’d be lying if I said it wasn’t what was enticing me. “Dada wants to make his sweet baby cummy,” made me want to barf, but I put up with it because he would also say, “I’m going to take you to Nordstrom on our next date. Baby deserves some new clothes.”

I guess I got a little bad about returning his phone calls, and started responding with texts. I also asked him to please tone down the baby talk. After Christmas I called him up and asked when this Nordstrom shopping spree was to take place. Though, my actual words were, “When can I see you again, Daddy?”

“I’m going to be frank with you,” he said. “I’m getting the impression that you are only interested in me for my money, that’s why my last relationship ended and I don’t want to go through that again.” What? How dare you call me out so accurately!

But instead of ‘fess up, I decided to be a bitch. I made some quip about how he was only attracted to barely-legal teens and child abuse victims, which from what he told me about all of his exes is probably accurate, but not very nice. Then I hung up on him and blocked him. I may have many talents, but blowing smoke up the asses of rich Sugar Daddies isn’t one of them.

Although I just wrote an essay making fun of Creepy D (and calling him Creepy D throughout), I think the guy is most likely a sex and love addict like myself. I’m thankful for my recovery, and I pray for the sex and love addict who still suffers.

EthanNassour*IsALyingCheater.com

While I had many acting out patterns, the main reason I joined SLAA was because of my obsession over one guy (HC).  I would call the events that precipitated my recovery a “high bottom.” By this, I mean that if you found HC and asked him about me, he probably wouldn’t have anything bad to say. Our break-up was pretty low key. I didn’t lose it and call him a bunch of times. He didn’t have to threaten me with a restraining order. As far as he knows, I was able to keep my dignity in tact. This story is about a time when I was not able to do that.

Ethan was the first person I met on a BDSM site. Ironically enough, I actually checked out the site because my therapist at the time recommended I do so. Ethan was tall, blonde and muscular. He was really into working out. He had some kind of boring office job and lived in the suburbs. Ethan wasn’t really my type, but after a few phone conversations, I decided to meet him anyway. He told me he was 34. At the time, I was in my mid-twenties and he was the oldest guy I had ever considered dating.

Ethan lived kind of far away so we met for a drink at a place that was half way between us. Although we didn’t have much in common, and I hated his choice of outfit, there was something about him. When he suggested… no, told me that we were going to go for a ride, I said “Ok,” even though this went against all the safety protools I knew for meeting a stranger off the internet. We drove to a dark, empty parking lot and made out in the backseat of his car. This was my first experience with a “Dom” and I was putty in his hands. I don’t know if it was his suggestion that I call him “Daddy” or if I just started doing it on my own. It was the first time I’d ever called a man that before (aside from my actual Dad). I don’t really understand why, but it felt right.

We did everything but intercourse that first night in the back of his car. He wanted to have sex, and it was soooo hard to say no to him, but this was back before I turned into a total slut. Back then I had rules about things like not having sex too soon. In one conversation after this first meeting I even told him that I didn’t want wan’t to have sex with someone who wasn’t my boyfriend and he said something like, “ok, I’m your boyfriend now.” Haha, right? But my naive ass thought, “Problem solved!”

Before I met Ethan, I had never really liked sex. I had had maybe three or four sexual partners before him, and they were all ok. I kind of thought maybe I was missing something. Society as a whole was/is so sex-obsessed and every time I was with a guy I would think, “hmm, this is just ok.” I should probably go back and modify that first sentence. It wasn’t that I didn’t like sex, it was that I didn’t like sex with other people, because I loved, loved, loved to masturbate. In my early 20s, I would spend hours masturbating almost every day. I thought I was just some freak who loved masturbation so much that it paled in comparison to actual sex. After I had sex with Ethan on our second “date,” (is it really called a date when the guy comes over, fucks you right away, then falls asleep for an hour and fucks you one more time before leaving?) I realized that I actually loved sex, I just didn’t love boring vanilla sex with an early twenty-something guy who has no idea what he was doing.

There are lots of sexy, kinky stories I could go into right now about the fun times I had with Ethan, but this isn’t really that kind of blog. I’ll just say the sex was amazing and I was hooked right off the bat. Things deteriorated fairly quickly though. Even though he called me his girlfriend (haha), we never actually went out on a date. There were other things too. We could only talk on the phone during the day, because he claimed he didn’t have cell phone reception or a landline at his house. Even though he lived an hour away, he only came over to my place. He never spent the night. He could only make last minute plans.

I grew suspicious. He had told me his name was Ethan Peterson. When I googled Ethan Peterson, about 6 million entries would come up. Of course, I didn’t look at all of them, but I did look at a lot. I googled the name with the city he claimed to live in, the job he claimed to have, etc. I found nothing that seemed to be him. So I paid a few dollars and did a reverse number search on his cell phone. The results? His real name wasn’t Ethan Peterson, it was Ethan Nassour.* When I googled “Ethan Nassour” I found a lot. First, Ethan Nassour was 44, 10 years (!) older than the 34 that Ethan Peterson had claimed to be. I also found out that he had a completely different job and lived in a completely different city.

When I confronted Ethan about lying about his name, his age (10 fucking years!), his job, and his city; his response was comical. He said, “You need to get your anger problem under control!” Moi? An anger problem? Yes, that must be it. I got mad at him for lying about everything because I have an anger problem, not because he lied about everything.

Amazingly, I kept seeing Ethan, because I was that hooked on him. I kept digging, though. One thing that my research hadn’t turned up was his marital status. To lie about everything he had to be married, right? I eventually found out that he had a live-in girlfriend, Brianna. One time I even tried to email her on myspace to tell him about him and me. I got a response back from him. Apparently he was monitoring her myspace account. Eventually he made her close it down.

Why did I stick around digging for shit instead of just leaving this lying liar as soon as I found out he was lying? I don’t really understand the answer to that question myself. I guess it was because he was my drug and I was addicted.

I went a long-stretch of time without seeing him. During this time I learned (via my online spying tactics) that Brianna had moved to another city for work. He confirmed this, and made it sound like they had broken up, although I doubted they had. We started seeing each other again. One time I showed up at his house unannounced (I’d found his address online). He was pissed, but let me in and we had sex. From that time on, he always made me drive to him. His place was an hour away from mine, and he never let me spend the night. In fact, he would never even let me into the bedroom. I was only allowed in the main room and the bathroom. It was a pain driving all the way to his place late at night, and then an even bigger pain driving all the way back home even later at night, but I kept doing it. Sometimes I would get to his place and he wouldn’t even be there. He’d tell me that he’d be there soon and I would have to wait outside his house for sometimes up to two hours. How pathetic was I? Later I learned that he had more than one residence (and more than one live-in girlfriend) and this was why it would take him so long to show up.

One night, I was at his house and he took some very degrading pictures of me while we were having sex. He told me he would delete them when we were done. Why I trusted this guy after all the lies he told me, I have no clue. Afterwards, I asked him to delete the pictures like he had promised. He said, “No, I’m going to save them for insurance purposes.” I refused to leave until he deleted them. He said if I didn’t leave he would call the cops. I again refused to leave until the pictures were deleted.  So he called the police.

The police dispatcher wanted to talk to me. I explained the situation to her. She asked if the sex was consensual and if he had hit me. I said that it was and that he hadn’t. She then asked if he had pushed me, and I said that he had pushed me away a few times when I tried to grab the camera. I tried to explain to her that it wasn’t a big deal and that he hadn’t hurt me, but the situation had turned around on Ethan. It turns out that the crying girl who wanted her naked pictures deleted was a lot more sympathetic than the angry man, twenty years her senior, who refused to delete her pictures. The dispatcher wanted to stay on the phone with me until the officers got there.

I’m a wholesome (seemingly, at least), educated girl that comes from a nice family. This was the first and only time I had any dealings with the police, except for small things like my car getting broken into. I was so freaked out. I have a career that requires a spotless record and was so worried I was going to lose every thing over this shit. I was a crying mess. The police officers were so kind and reassuring, though. Apparently, like the dispatcher, they thought I was the more sympathetic party. While I didn’t want to get in trouble, I didn’t want to get Ethan in trouble either. They wanted to know if I wanted to press charges or if I wanted to file a restraining order. All I wanted was for him to delete the pictures. They said that unfortunately, they couldn’t make him do that, but they would talk to him and strongly suggest that he delete them. I still don’t know if he deleted them or not, because this was the last time I ever saw Ethan.

Looking back, this was the lowest experience of my life — having the police called on me, then having to sobbingly tell the police what I had been stupid enough to let this man do to me, having to listen to all the shit Ethan had to say about me, worrying that my career and good reputation would be over because of my addiction to this horrible man. This should have been my bottom. Unfortunately, it wasn’t, and I went on to act out for many more years before I got help for my addictions.

I have a lot of shame about this story and I’m revisiting this feeling as I write and edit this entry. How could I have been so stupid as to let things get to that point with Ethan? Why would I let someone so vile and untrustworthy capture me in such a vulnerable state? Why couldn’t I have been strong enough to end it without police involvement? I’ve only told one or two people this story before and I have some anxiety about sharing it on here. I do believe in the saying, “We’re only as sick as our secrets,” so that’s why I’m sharing it now.

It turns out this story does have a tiny bit of a happy ending. Well, maybe not a happy ending, but a validating ending. One day, a year after I had stopped seeing Ethan, I googled his name and found a website called http://www.EthanNassourIsALyingCheater.com. A woman had started this site to warn other women about Ethan. I swear I didn’t create the site, but based on what was posted there I could have. Aside from the police involvement, it was my story. It turns out I wasn’t the only person he had shaved 10 years off his age, and used the alias “Ethan Peterson,” with. It also turns out that while I was seeing Ethan he had not one, but two live-in girlfriends, in two different houses. One girl knew, but the other one did not. In addition to this website creator’s story, there were comments from about twenty other woman with similar stories about him! It always amazes me how these guys have the time to juggle so many different people. Interspersed with these stories were comments from the man himself threatening to sue everyone that had a hand in creating or commenting on the site. I’m not proud of it, but I got such sick, vindictive glee out of this website’s existence. Sadly, the site was eventually taken down and scrubbed from the internet.

I’m so grateful for my recovery and grateful that I will never get involved with a man like Ethan ever again.

*Ethan Nassour is a made-up name to protect the guilty from suing me. If your name is really Ethan Nassour and you found this site by googling yourself, my apologies. I’m sure you are a really nice person and not a lying cheater at all.

Driving and Crying

Lately, I’ve been having a lot of break downs (of the crying variety) while driving. I don’t know why I feel so comfortable letting lose in my car, in traffic, in broad daylight, in view of tons of people. I mean I would never just start crying on the street. Wait. I take that back. I would and I have. In those cases though, I at least had the decency to try to be discreet about it. In my car it’s like I momentarily forget I’m not invisible. I know people can see me. When I’m stuck in traffic (and not crying) I frequently look at other motorists. I see people singing, picking their noses, putting on make-up, talking on their phones, but I don’t ever recall seeing someone bawling like a baby (except, of course, actual babies). And, by the way, I am not one of those girls who look delicate and vulnerable when crying. My face gets red and contorts, snot runs out of my nose. I look like a wild animal and it’s not a pretty sight.

Side note: I did a google image search for “ugly cry” and the above picture of Paris Hilton came up first. I choose to put it at the top of this post, just cause she was in a car. If that qualifies as an ugly cry face, I really am in trouble. My ugly cry looks more like this picture of Sookie from True Blood, but way, way uglier:

Anyway, on to the reason why I was crying today. I was driving home from looking at a couple of apartments and the “OMG you’re are such a pathetic loser” mantra was going through my head. The apartments I looked at today, were just like the ones I’ve been looking at everyday. One unit was a dump — dirty, not well-maintained, depressing; and the other was was ok (at my price range, ok is the best I can hope to find). I’d say the ratio of dumps to ok places I’ve been looking at is about 2:1. So, of course, I am interested in the ok apartment, but so are a lot of other people. I’m told that three other people have already submitted applications (on an apartment that was listed on craigslist only hours prior), but if for some reason all of their applications fall through because of bad credit, I’m next on the list. And all I can think is that if the three people ahead of me are rejected for bad credit, I’m sure I will be as well.

I couldn’t help but think if I had put nearly as much energy as I put into my obsession and addiction into finding a decent job, I would have an amazing career right now and I wouldn’t have to be competing for shitty apartments with college students. Instead, I am over-educated, under employed and earn an hourly wage, without benefits and can’t pay my bills. If I had put nearly as much energy into anything healthy I would probably own property, be married and have three kids. I mean, if I am going to beat up on myself for past mistakes, I might as well just pile everything on there.

The good news is that I am in recovery now. I don’t own a time machine, so I can’t go back ten years and do everything differently, but I can do things differently starting now. Every day, I can make better choices. Instead of spending all my free time looking for new guys that might be “the one,” looking for guys to fuck, obsessing over the guy of the month, dating, fucking, preparing for a date or a fuck, etc; I can spend my time finding a better job, or making my life better in some way.