by Leah Rachel
1.GAIN TEN POUNDS. And if anyone in your circle of friends shies away from you or starts positioning you weird when taking pictures because of your recent plumpery, cut them out. Cut them out FAST AND HARD. Cut them out like a 100-dollar-off coupon for Target you found in the Sunday Times.
2.CALL YOUR PARENTS. I know your dad was a little bit of an alcoholic and your mom was a little bit of a hooker, but GET OVER IT ALREADY. Any hard feelings past 30 are on you.
3.TELL STRANGERS THEY ARE COOL. Trust me, they need it. An in-person “like” can take someone’s day from miserable, aimless, and “about to cut off their own hair” to contemplative, maybe hopeful, and “making an appointment at that cute spot that girl with good hair told them about that one time.” Save a soldier, and a soldier will save you.
4.EAT LUNCH. I know that seems crazy. Breakfast is the kick-start-your-metabolism, eat-it-even-if-it-seems-like-it-will-make-you-gain-weight-because-you-don’t-even-want-it-but-the-magazine-said-so meal, RIGHT? Well yeah, maybe. But something tells me that girls who eat lunch are the same girls who get what they want in bed and also tell their friends when they’re acting shady. Girls who eat lunch are girls who don’t hold out for shit. And whatever you do, don’t order the kale Caesar or you will have completely negated the point.
5.CRY. Often. And do it whenever the fuck you want. I don’t know when not crying became cool, but I do not subscribe. Emotions make people uncomfortable, but every time a woman publicly floods, she makes it okay for another girl to burst. And I think we can all agree that most of us (especially midday on Wednesdays) are usually scratching and itching and dying to burst. Be brave. Cry, baby.
6.FORGET ABOUT THE PLOT. Don’t spend your whole life trying to “do things.” Spend it trying to be things. Being busy doesn’t equal going to heaven. Also, NEWSFLASH: The moment you die is just like remembering an old movie. You don’t remember jobs and story lines; you remember characters and emotions. You basically forget everything about everything—you only remember how it made you feel. (I know this not because I’ve died and been reincarnated but because I did a lot of peyote with my fake-hippie ex and drank way more than I was supposed to to help me escape my crippling reality at the time.)
7.WEAR YOUR HEART ON YOUR SLEEVE NO MATTER HOW MANY TIMES SAID SLEEVE GETS BURNED / TORN / RUINED IN THE WASHER. The only way to prevent your heart from being broken is to act like you don’t have one. Do not do this. Roll up your heart-covered sleeves and get fucking dirty. There is nothing more beautiful than a woman who has let herself love.
8.LOVE HARD. And give that shit away like a stranger with candy. Give it away generously to everyone who needs it or wants it or never got enough of it.
9.TELL PEOPLE WHAT THEY MEAN TO YOU. Tell them all the time. All the time. All the time . . .
10.RUN THROUGH RIVERS NAKED. Let your titties flop and fly and splash that holy water all around you. River water is far more healing than pressed juices, I assure you. And nothing feels better against naked boobies than a cool, crisp forest river.
Image sourced from Unsplash
1990: A Little Tikes power tool. It was a battery-operated fake drill that didn’t really do anything but vibrate. I took it out of my brother’s toy box and pretended to want to play with it instead of my ratty-haired Barbies or Easy-Bake Oven. Barbies and ovens didn’t do the trick like this go-go power tool. I held it outside my panties and sat cross-legged on my cold basement floor. I think I was five. I had accidentally brushed it across my lady garden a few weeks before and remember feeling internally electrocuted down yonder . . . in a good way. Anyway, I couldn’t tell anyone else what I had discovered. I watched enough TV shows to know that if you have superpowers, you must keep them to yourself—for if you tell everyone, you risk them being taken away. I pressed the on button and moved the plastic drill down south. It was the first time I realized my pussy had power. I didn’t come. I’m not even sure you can come at that age, but I will always get sort of horny for the rest of my life anytime I go into a Home Depot.
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1993: “Let’s play tornado!” I said, like I did every time Tommy came over after school. Tornado: a game where I and my 9-year-old play date huddled up in the corner of the basement on a futon and humped the living daylights out of each other while acting like we were protecting each other from an incoming tornado.
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1994: A shoulder ride on a bumpy road. My Japanese uncle Oji let me sit on his shoulders as we walked down a brick road with my brothers toward the grocery store. It had been stormy that summer, and the rain caused the bricks to shift and clutter. About halfway down the street, I held tight to Oji’s salt-and-pepper hair, and with my head in the clouds, I was brought to my first official orgasm. Up until that point it had just felt good to have vibrations in that area, but this time, and God bless that old brick road . . . I finished. Completely unaware of what was happening above, Oji looked up from below as I audibly gasped. “You okay?” he asked. “Want to get down?” “I’m okay.” I smiled. “Are we almost there yet?” As we approached the grocery store and my brothers and I chose TV dinners for the night with Oji, I stood a little taller than ever before. But never too tall for another shoulder ride.
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Image sourced from Pixabay
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1995–2000: Lots of masturbating to sexy R & B videos in my parents’ room with the door locked. One explorative sleepover with two girls sometime in middle school where we grabbed each other’s recently sprouted titties and I think I humped a pillow in another room until I came.
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2000–2004: Sex and no orgasms. What the fuck? Penetration sucks! Especially when you’re the other woman in high school and the boy you lost your virginity to is nicknamed Baby Carrot and now you know why. But on the bright side, it didn’t even hurt! Other than that, it was a bunch of getting fingered by 16-year-old boy-hand jackhammers and having drunk sex with boys who were as clueless as I was. I lied and told everyone I came sooooooo many times every time. I had never come from dick yet, though. What was wrong with me? Was my vagina broken? Was it because I masturbated too much? Too early? Why did all the Cosmopolitan articles make it seem so easy? Why didn’t dick work?!
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Image sourced from Unsplash
Raindrops image sourced from Pixabay; guy and girl image courtesy of Pexels
A Tiny Poem
“I do,” she lied.
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2006: The first man-made orgasm I had as a grown human girl was given by the drummer of a band named Snow Nose. At the time, I was so naive and corn-fed I literally didn’t know what “snow nose” meant. Did he enjoy baking? Soothing his chafed nose with talcum powder? Whatever. Who cares? He was Australian, and he was in a band. I met him lying in the glass box at the Standard hotel on the Sunset Strip of Los Angeles, California. Yeah, that’s right. MY JOB WAS LYING IN A GLASS BOX. I wasn’t naked; I was to wear “girly pajamas,” preferably all pink or all white. I couldn’t drink a lot of water during the day, prior to my shift, because the shifts were four hours, and I couldn’t get out to pee. So obviously my career was going well and my life was full of promise. But I couldn’t make my parents too proud, ya know. So one night, after my 8 p.m. to 12 a.m. shift, I sat at the nearby bar (still in my white pajamas) and ate my employee meal next to a group of gorgeous, eyeliner-wearing, leather-jacket-donning bad boys I had seen come in and out of the hotel earlier. They told me the name of their band, and I pretended to LOVE their music. I didn’t want to go home yet, because at the time, I shared a one-bedroom apartment with a stripper named Candy, and as of late, she had been inviting our 50-year-old neighbor over for sleepovers in her twin bed, eight feet away from mine. So when the drummer of the band asked if I wanted to come up to his room and chill, I eagerly shoveled down the rest of my hamburger and said yes. His room was modern and angular, and by the look of the clothes draping the giant suitcase in the corner, there might be a lady involved in his life. He prom
ised there wasn’t; he just sometimes liked to dress in lady clothes. For whatever reason, the thought of this wild and free, cross-dressing Australian drummer seriously turned me on. He wasn’t even trying to touch me, either, a true gentleman. We drank some fancy-ass bottled water (I was SO thirsty from dehydrating myself all day in preparation for le box) and smoked Camel Lights on his patio for a few hours until I got super tired and asked if I could crash there. I was already in my pajamas, after all! He said yes, and we cuddled as intimately as two basic strangers could cuddle. It was intimate and scary and weird and one of the situations you only get yourself into when you’re 21 years old and unafraid of anything. In the morning, I turned to him and kissed him. It was morning and I was horny, and I knew I would never see him again. I grabbed his hand and put it right in the spot that worked. Note to ladies: DRUMMERS ARE GOOD WITH THEIR HANDS. As I laid back and closed my eyes, the title drummer boy pa-rum-pa-pum-pummed away and I came my brains out. If I had any brains back then, that is. I mean, I did sleep in a basic stranger’s bed and put myself in “harm’s way.” But Drummer Boy was sweet and cool and didn’t even try to fuck me. In fact, when I later tried to go down south on him, he said I didn’t have to. He had a meeting to get to anyway. Electrocuted back to life, I chugged another fancy bottle of water, pressed the lobby button for the desperately modern elevator, and skipped past the empty glass box above the receptionist. After that day, I never went back to lie in the glass box again. There was too much water to drink and too many orgasms to be had. I thank Little Drummer Boy for reminding me of that.
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2008: Dick finally worked! And I dated the guy for almost a year just because his penis convinced me that I was normal. And whoa, baby. It was different than the “from the outside” sensation. It was intense and powerful and wild and out of control. When I broke up with Dick-master, I immediately bought a giant dildo from the Hustler store on Hollywood Boulevard. I needed to figure out how this thing worked. And I finally did.
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2009–2015: Lots of bad boyfriends. Lots of one-night stands. About 50 percent success rate for internal OGs. Usually only when I felt comfortable enough to show them how. Usually when they grabbed my waist. Usually when they fucked me from behind.
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2017: New Year’s Eve. I had been dating TJ for less than a year. There was a supermoon that night and I was in super love. Maybe that’s how it works after all, when you’re in super love you have super orgasms? TJ was sweet and dirty and cuddly and wild all at the same time. He loved my big ass and made me feel beautiful in positions I had previously felt not. We ditched our New Year’s Eve plans, because I hated New Year’s Eve, and instead stayed in and cooked huge steaks sprinkled with nothing but salt. He went down on me during the countdown and I screamed as the cheering noises of neighbors echoed in the night. It was the best orgasm I’ve ever had. It was the holy grail. It was hilarious and ironic and erotic and amazing. I don’t hate New Year’s Eve anymore.
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Image sourced from Pixabay
Image sourced from Unsplash
Don’t cry because it’s over. Cry because you’re a delusional mess and “it’s over” never means it’s over.
Image sourced from Unsplash
DON’T order sautéed vegetables instead of fries and then spend the next four hours living in regret and later binge eat ice cream to make up for it and consume so many calories you could have just ordered four orders of fries in the first place.
DON’T agree to get coffee and “catch up” with your ex (the one who proposed to you at a Thanksgiving dinner with 30 people while rolling on ecstasy).
DON’T believe him when he tells you he’s too busy. Nobody is ever busier than a guy who doesn’t want to date you.
DON’T underestimate the power of having crushes from the shadows. He doesn’t not like you if he doesn’t know you exist.
DON’T date a guy who skips over the pistachios that are hard to open.
DON’T cry because it’s over. Cry because you’re a delusional mess and “it’s over” never means it’s over.
DON’T try to figure out what’s wrong with someone before they figure out what’s wrong with you.
DON’T shave your fur bikini if it makes you feel warm and cuddly.
DON’T be ashamed to cry. Humans are the only mammals that have the ability to shed tears. It is our Homo sapiens superpower. (I mean, do camels spend the weekend ashamed that they spit four times this week? Do turtles get embarrassed about how much they go in and out of their shells? Hell no!)
He doesn’t not like you if he doesn’t know you exist.
Image sourced from Pixabay
Book image sourced from Pixabay; eye image sourced from Unsplash
Image sourced from Pixabay
“You look like a baby in that pic!”
(So what, bitch, I look old now?)
“You look so healthy!”
(So you’re saying I’m fat.)
“Did you start your period?”
(Why? Because I need to be bleeding to justify having feelings?)
“I’m so full. You seriously want dessert?”
(Yes. I was not, in fact, joking about desiring something more. I know, right? What a monster! Now order me that goddamn chocolate soufflé so I can shove it down my throat and then fake a trip to the bathroom, call an Uber, and never see your “I’m so full” ass again.)
“Babe. You already told me that story. Remember?”
(Don’t ever look at me like I’m a dumb forgetful bitch and you’re a smart rememberful man, or I will bite your arm like I did last night, but this time I’ll break skin.)
“You know who you sort of look like? A hotter Ricki Lake!”
(. . .)
“I do think I’m falling in love with you. I just want to be sure before I really say it.”
(If it’s not a “fuck yes,” it’s a “fuck no.” Can you draw me a lukewarm bath before bed tonight so I can drown in it with you?)
I will not neutralize my sexuality to make you take me seriously.
Fire and scissors images sourced from Pixabay; woman image sourced from Unsplash
Dear Uber Driver,
You didn’t know, but my eyes weren’t red and puffy because I just watched Lion; my eyes were red and puffy because my best friend just broke up with me. I think maybe you knew something else was going on, but you never asked. You only asked about the movie, in what I now realize was an effort to calm me down, and when I proceeded to completely lie and make up the entire plot (in detail, for 15 minutes) you never called me out. You said you loved the movie, too, and saw it in the theater with your son, and I was confused but happy to talk about anything other than the friendship I had just lost, and so I went full speed into “OMG and that one part with the little kid and the lion . . .” You had little bottles of water in your car, and you didn’t bat an eye when I drank two. (Tears can be severely dehydrating, you know.) When we got close to my apartment you asked if I minded if we pulled through In-N-Out. The drive-through line was finally short and you’d been waiting for it to go down all night. I said yes and you turned off the meter and you bought me a milkshake to say thanks. I sipped the milkshake with shaky hands and wanted nothing more than to stay in the back seat of your too-warm, vanilla-scented Honda Accord all night.
On the rest of the way back to my apartment, we talked about our parents and God and how we both loved going to Niagara Falls when we were little even though everybody else hated it. We talked about that crazy lady who threw herself over the waterfall in a wooden barrel with her cat way back in the 1900s, and how crazy it is that we both looked that shit up over and over via Google spirals, well into our adulthood. I laughed and finished my strawberry milkshake, and you told me I was weird and funny and you bet I have a lot of friends. I told you not that many actually, and you looked like you didn’t believe me. I told you it was true and that it was my fault because actually I can be super overbearing and
selfish and suddenly disappear when a new guy enters my life, but again, you looked like you didn’t believe me. My eyes started to re–well up and I quickly exited your car and never saw you again. But I wanted to make you proud. I wanted you to be right about me. I called my friend that night and she didn’t pick up. I had more to say, I said. Two weeks later, after a lengthy apology about my past shiftiness, we curled up together, ordered Chinese food, and watched Lion. It was then that I realized there is no lion in Lion. Thank you, Mr. Uber Driver, for thinking I was, in fact, a good friend, and thank you, Mr. Uber Driver, for not correcting me about the stupid lion.
She remembered her old self . . . and then everything fucking changed.
Dear 8-Year-Old Me,
Goddamn, girl. I wish I could be more like you. You eat whatever you want whenever you want, you literally chase boys around all day without giving a fuck, you dress up and play Queen of the World with your best friends, you cry when you need to, and you don’t care who hears you take a shit. The world will try to change you as you get older. It will tell you to hold in your crushes and your farts. It will tell you to put up walls to protect yourself, and it will tell you that to play Queen of the World you need to be tripping on mushrooms or locked up in a padded room. In many ways, you are the coolest, purest, most confident woman you will ever be in your whole entire life, and this will make no sense at all because you are only 8 years old. But I miss you all the time. Want to come over and play?
