Relocation

I absolutely love my apartment. I love its location, its size, and most importantly Narnia. Yes, I have access to Narnia on the Upper East Side - jealous? Thing is, I had a large wardrobe in my last apartment, and it accommodated 90% of my clothing.  I was beside myself when I realized there wouldn't be room for it in my new studio. Moving from a roomy two bedroom into a studio is difficult enough without the added pressure of potential clothing racks lining the hallway, bathroom, kitchen, etc. I was a few coping-cocktails away from posting it on Craigslist, and waiting to watch all that beautiful storage space leave me forever when my roommate came up with a brilliant plan - Narnia.

All I had to do was remove the back of my wardrobe and position it in front of the existing closet in the room. With the trusted assistance from my dad (and a few moving-day-cocktails), we affixed the wardrobe to the closet doors and voila - Narnia! Now existed a gateway to a beautiful land and some little half goat looking son of a bitch that could show me where the Turkish Delights were stashed. Home sweet home. Well, it was home sweet home until last week when I found out I would need to relocate ASAP.

OK, maybe I'm over-exaggerating, but hear me out.

I had been enjoying a bottle of wine (yes, to myself) in Central Park during a screening of The Big Lebowski. I wanted to honor The Dude with a White Russian cocktail, but my schedule did not allow the time to build said beverage in an appropriate commodity. My friends enjoyed libations as well, but the bottle ended up only serving one - oops. After the cult classic credits began rolling, we headed back to my apartment. We dropped off our chairs and blankets, and decided it was best to maintain our level of intoxication by heading to the bar. 

We walked in and the bartender served me up my regular icy cold draught. My friend (the other decided to retire at a respectable hour) and I made great conversation with the other patrons, and even enjoyed a few shots on them. When my beer had but a sip left, the bartender came over with a full pint in hand and told me, "This is from your boss." I figured he was joking, but threw him a puzzled look regardless. He then confirmed my suspicions when he said, "Yeah, your boss, Tony." How did he know my boss's name? My eyes darted frantically around the bar looking for answers. My boss visits elite establishments that require memberships; no way would he be at a dive bar whose slogan is "Put Some South in Your Mouth." My heartbeat finally slowed when I saw the culprit - Josh - one of my boss's contractors whom I saw at the office only a few days before. His eyes were bloodshot and he was enjoying a good laugh at my expense.

Reason one that I needed to relocate: my professional life has begun to mix with my personal. Josh was allegedly a regular at this bar - a claim I refuted since I was a regular and had never seen him there before. He proved himself quickly by scrolling through his contacts and pointing out bartenders that worked there. I am never on my best behavior at that bar - I can't risk my shenanigans getting back to my boss. I must move.

If Josh showing up to buy me a beer "from my boss" wasn't reason enough, a few moments later my doorman walked in. What. The... He made a beeline toward me, and greeted me with his creepy I-might-keep-children-in-my-basement grin. "I always hear you talking about this place when you leave, and I decided to check it out," he admitted to following me. Being the kind and drunk friendly girl I am, I offered to buy him a drink. "I really like vodka, I'll take a Malibu rocks." Ummm.... I ordered him his rum vodka, and we all started chatting about the fine establishment in which we all now drank. One thing led to another and my friend and I snuck out of the backdoor with the bartender's assistance. We had been hiding in the restroom for a solid five minutes before I poked my head out and saw my doorman's eyes locked on mine. I'm sorry, but I learned my lesson with men and their blackouts. The only thing we could do was sneak out of there. Apparently, I was too far gone to realize I would have to see him the next day...and every day thereafter for the remainder of my lease.  Oops. In retrospect, I shouldn't have pretended to date rape his drink when Call Me, Maybe? came on (my favorite remix is Date Rape Me, Maybe). 

I got home safely and peeled myself out of bed the next morning confused by what day it was. I managed to shower off some of the hangover, and left for work. To my horror, my night doorman was wobbling on the corner at the end of the block. He was wearing the same clothes he had on the night before, and looked lost - no way he made it home yet. I avoided eye contact and continued on my commute. I should have taken that as a sign from above and gone back to my bed because shortly after I arrived at the office I was called out for "reeking of alcohol." Awesome. I spent the rest of my hangover the day researching apartments, and only stopped when I came to grips with the real problem - me. Because "no matter where you go, there you are."

Sexual Conquests 65-81

(See The List for introduction and explanation) (Click to zoom)

So it's true what they say - all good things must come to an end, and thus, here we are. I would pour out some booze for conquests One through Eighty-One, but 1) I don't waste booze 2) I don't waste booze and c) I'm hungover and might puke if I smell liquor other than that seeping out of my pores ("You smell like alcohol." - direct quote from my colleague this morning, and it means only one thing: a successful evening. More on that later). I do realize it wasn't just 81 victims conquests - some numbers included multiple ladies. He's just that entertaining.

This last bunch ties in wonderfully with the entire list - they're great. The body-piercing bunch, apparently. Poor Sixty-Five, she probably never saw that slap coming (good thing she's not a pop star - they get those affections to the face). She should at least be grateful her nickname didn't become "purple cock print." Knowing this guy, that was a definite possibility.

More importantly, let's look to Sixty-Nine. "Grenade." Yes, this was written in '06 - Mike "The Situation" from Jersey Shore wasn't the first to coin this term. Casanova should collect royalties.

Seventy-Eight is another favorite of mine. She is lovingly compared to Paula Abdul (much better than 32's Ricky Lake), but now I'm curious - does the real Paula Abdul have a similar "thatch" of pubic hair. Seriously, HOW does he remember these details?

I hope you've enjoyed this list as much as I have. No matter what horrible things I've done in my life, I know I'm a better person than this guy. It helps me sleep at night (so does the vodka). So, I really just want to say, thank you, Casanova. I hope your dick hasn't fallen off, I hope you have managed to dodge procreation, and I hope you holler at me with an updated list. 

Additionally, I find it necessary to reiterate - I am not on this list, nor any updated version that might exist. Something that I'm proud of and sad about at the same time.  I mean, he did say he was "immortalizing" these chicks.  Too bad he spelled demoralizing wrong.

Guiding Kids Through Life's Storms

I recently caught up with a grade school classmate that I hadn't seen in over a decade (ugh, I'm old).  It was a booze-filled gathering, as most reunions tend to be. We updated each other on our lives, reminisced about our Catholic School upbringing, and might have even made projections on the future. I suppose what I meant is that we got drunk, shared horror stories of our current predicaments, complained about our Catholic School upbringing, and made the accurate assumption that we will be stuck living the same monotonous lives for the foreseeable future. It was a great time.

While the encounter provided plenty of funny things to write about, I'd like to focus on the Catholic School complaints. I've only ever attended Catholic School - kindergarten through college. I'm not one for making excuses (yes, I am), but all issues apart from those of the daddy variety can and will be chalked up to parochial schooling. The most interesting part, however, is how both categories of issues crossed paths in my young, formidable years - a correlation that I had effectively forgotten until my blast-from-the-past friend made mention of it. Like a frenemy after a hangover reminding you of the actual attractiveness of your hook up the night before all the terrible decisions you made the night before, my former classmate asked if I remembered Rainbows.

Well, I do now - thanks.

(Source)

Seemingly, I had repressed this period of my youth (wishing I might have repressed this part instead). Unfortunately, as soon as he mentioned the word Rainbows, the yellow workbook came racing back into the memory banks. Ah, the fond memories of having to participate in a program focused on "guiding kids through life's storms." Essentially, it was a class for kids with divorced parents - at least that's what they focused on at my school. Rainbows come after storms - oh, I see what they did there.

Their website explains that "children need guidance and compassion to prevent a loss event from literally defining their lives through later destructive choices. In fact, research proves that unresolved grief leaves kids vulnerable to major at-risk behaviors." Boy, did they fail with me.  If anything, I've perfected destructive choices. I've even found a way to capitalize on those choices, and you're reading it right now.

Cut a kid's recess time, and you're asking for future at-risk behaviors. But, apparently, Rainbows figured it was better that kids with divorced parents focus on their broken homes and how that makes them feel rather than focusing on kickball. I could've been an Olympian if I had been allowed to harbor all of that "loss" into athletics. Yes, I just blamed a youth organization for my failures in life. You know what helps kids through life's storms? Singling them out by putting them in a faux-support group so the whole school knows they come from broken homes. There was even a picture in the yearbook - right between Newspaper Club and Spelling Bee. The should have just captioned the photo "Children with Absentee Fathers."

Perhaps I didn't fully participate in the program; I didn't give it my all. I come to this assumption because if any class in recent memory can attest to my efforts - I definitely didn't do the required reading. If the reading would've gotten me my recess back, maybe I would have. They should have predicted a future riddled with technology and held the program during Handwriting class - cursive is so stupid. The only thing I need cursive for is my signature. Why not teach little Lily how to write three letters in cursive to sign her name and call it a day? But, no, I had to sit around and talk about my feelings while the other kids were outside growing boobs and self-esteem. Thanks, Rainbows.

When If I get divorced, I'll make sure my mistakes children steer clear of youth organizations void of competeition. I'm breeding athletes here, no time for pussy shit feelings.

---

"I'm pretty sure I drank that terrible program out of my memory." - my brother after I reminded him

Sexual Conquests 49-64

(See The List for introduction and explanation) (Click to zoom)

I love attention, but come on Fifty-Sixes. I wonder, although, if that's a typical Tuesday for them? It doesn't strike me as a rookie threesome maneuver, and this was before the days of YouPorn. Speaking of technological advances, I've just realized that all of these girls were pre-smartphone, damn. The List could have come with photo/video attachments, because you know Casanova would have convinced most of these sloozies to pose for his mobile device. Never have I wanted his updated List more, meh.

Also disappointing - his lack of detail with Fifty-Eight. What happened on that bus? He's so flippant with the information he provides. Bus bitch gets nothing, while Sixty gets condom detail. I really hope this means he threw one on with One through Fifty-Nine as well and this trend didn't just start because he felt inspired by AC/DC (great song choice by the way, Sixty clearly aspires to be a stripper - I dig it). 

While the condom mention threw me off, I was more surprised that he's able to recall the color of these girls' eyes. Few people ever remember that detail about even one person, let alone dozens. I couldn't tell you the color of all my exes' eyes. Does that make me a bad person? Maybe. Does that make me a comparable asshole to Casanova (he even admits he is - Sixty-Two)? Not even close.

This guy runs through high school friends, strippers, and divorcées (some categories overlap). You (yes, you) have probably slept with him without knowing. Well, if not this Casanova, surely another. Just make sure you wrap it up.  Unless, of course, you're Catholic - that's a sin. Instead, spread disease and irresponsibly procreate (one and of the same, really).

Concrete Jungle. Concrete Crotch.

You know it's taken a turn for the worse when your friends announce they'll be commandeering your dating life. They're pretty much saying, "You're embarrassing us, and if you don't kill yourself soon, we will." Actually, I think that's exactly what my friends said when it happened to me. I can't say I really blame them. 

The dating coup was decided over a fancy Restaurant Week dinner, the only kind of fine dining I could afford having spent all of my money at bars on putting-myself-out-there drinks. They realized it was time to step in once it was my turn for the "any special guy in your life" update. They had all just finished boasting about their seemingly wonderful relationships, and were horrified when I showed them a picture of a bar hook up that passed out on my couch before the hook up part of the deal ever happened. Apparently, this was the last men-in-Lily's-life overdose they could handle before staging an intervention.

Sure, it had been a while since I had been out on a real date. The dating world was apparently boycotting me as much as my vibrator, which had decided to go on strike right in the middle of my slump. Just because it had been a while (or forever) since I had a great guy in my life, didn't mean I was incapable of choosing the right men on my own. Or did it? Regardless, I gave in to their demands, and found myself six emails into an "Introduction - Lily/The Ted" conversation later that week. 

The banter was fueled by sports talk after my matchmaking friend, Cane, made it well-known that we were football rivals.  Historically, Cane had always refused to set people up so as to not disappoint on either end (she never disappoints as a drinking/judging/bitching buddy). For me and "The Ted," she decided to make an exception. Spoiler alert: she shouldn't have.

The thing is, I should've realized it wasn't going to end well when the scheduled steak dinner turned into happy hour drinks. There must be something about my email correspondence that screams "no self-respect" because he knew I wouldn't object to an excess of drinks replacing food. Fast forward a few hours and we were back at my apartment (high fives to my doorman on the way in - he always appreciates a fresh new face).

I didn't necessarily want to make out with him, but the Jameson convinced me it was better than the solo manual labor I would try for and undoubtedly fail at later. We found our way to my bed, which isn't difficult in a studio apartment. The floor would have worked just as well, but why make an already uncomfortable situation more so?

The kissing wasn't terrible, but it was only moistening one set of lips. As is typical with most bankers, his seductive talent lived only on the trading floor. My mind began wandering (and wondering) to the better days of hook ups. Would things ever live up to past excitements?  Gone were the college days where the beds weren't the only things that were extra-long. Gone were the juvenile, yet stimulating, high school days of sneaking out to head down the block giving the neighbors a show in the back of your hand-me-down car. Now all I had to show for myself (and the neighbors) was this average guy, his average kissing, his average penis (assuming the latter - and I'm probably being generous), and unfortunately some Concrete Crotch.

If you're wearing fairly tight jeans while reading this, you're at an advantage because you can follow along and experience this as you continue (I suggest against this if you are currently around children - pedophilia is frowned upon). When spreading your legs in tight jeans, you create a firm barrier that can form anywhere between two to four inches from your actual baby making parts. It is rock solid. Not even a karate chop could affect your situation (chopping being my favorite method of testing the concreteness).

Now, many guys fail to consider this when attempting to pleasure a woman. Either they don' t care or they don't care realize they're making a mistake.  While attempting dominance, they hover over you and spread your legs with theirs. You're wearing tight jeans and this spreading quickly creates a concrete barrier versus a preferred warm welcome (why didn't you just wear the sweatpants?) They put forth their best effort in clitoral stimulation, and it's all for naught as they remain two to four inches away from any vaginal (you're welcome) contact.

The Ted hit the Concrete Crotch as aggressively as Chad Johnson hit his wife (I wanted to go with a Chris Brown reference here, but I decided to attack it with current events). I was amused by his ignorance.  He really thought he was doing me a favor. "Please her and she'll please me." It's a standard misconception, and it should be renamed "Try and please her, she'll fake it for my sake, and she'll please me if I spend money on her."

I suppose I could have let him know the common mistake he was making, but his ignorance was the only thing that amused me at the time. If he couldn't find his way around a Concrete Crotch, he undoubtedly wouldn't be able to perform as I needed him to. It was finally time to cut him loose. I muttered, "I'm sorry, you have to go, I'm a lady," and escorted him out as he begrudgingly walked toward my door with a bewildered look on his face. I couldn't decipher whether his confusion was from me declaring myself a lady or me laughing and texting a backup mid-step.

The backup wasn't available, and sadly, I wasn't even in the mood to buzz one out (or my broken vibrator wasn't). A failed night in my eyes. It did teach me a lesson though: buy a dependable vibrator wear leggings more often on dates.

Sexual Conquests 33-48

(See The List for introduction and explanation) (Click to zoom)

Casanova is no longer Casanova; he is now Prince Charming. Well, at least according to Forty-One he is. He conquered the much coveted threesome (well, foursome - but by the looks of it, the fatty just watched). Finally. Took him long enough. Speaking of long, he was sure to mention his "huge dick" again (Thirty-Five). We get it, asshole, you're God's gift to women (isn't he, though?).

If only the luck in his pants extended to Forty-Three. Perhaps we shouldn't feel sorry for the "girlfriend," though. He did say he "loves" her, right? That's really all a girl can ask for. Well, that, and for him to wrap it up with all the other whores ladies he runs through. I sure hope he's careful - you know what they say: those who pull out during sex as a method of birth control - there's a name for those people - parents. And let's be realistic, I'm sure he has some kiddos running the streets somewhere in the world. At the rate he's going, I'm sure he has  enough for a CYO basketball team (just assuming he's Catholic - he sounds it, no?). I'll be sure to send him a Father's Day card next year, and might include a link to this blog.

This group is rather diverse -  a Canadian, a Russian, a German, a "half-black, half-mexican [sic]." He surely maintains the anti-discrimination all-list-long.  He makes me want to start mixing things up.  Historically, I've always wanted blonde mistakes babies, but perhaps I'll take Prince Charming's route and expand my search. I will, however, steer clear of koala's (Thirty-Nine). I've never much trusted bears - there's a reason they're affiliated with pedophilia.  

I'm glad I was able to work pedophilia in there. Sorry, I'm not sorry, and neither is Casanova Prince Charming.

Sexual Conquests 17-32

(See The List for introduction and explanation) (Click to zoom)

After posting One through Sixteen, quite a few of my readers began questioning the authenticity of the occurrences. I'd like to vouch for Casanova's List - he didn't compile it to boast to hundreds of people (I'm doing that for him). He had too much time on his hands and too many blunts in them. He simply wrote an email to a buddy - no bragging necessary. I even heard many of the stories from the whore's horse's mouth containing more detail, which is seemingly unimaginable. My boyfriend at the time (the email recipient) verified and, at times, contributed to the firsthand recollections. 

At one time or another, I'm certain each of you have written out (or perhaps compiled one in your head) a list of conquests. Maybe your list was one only consisting of names. You can't really be mad that Casanova is simply more detail-oriented than you are. He's not lying to potential employers when his resume boasts "strong attention to detail." Who are we kidding, Casanova doesn't have to interview for jobs; jobs are bestowed upon him (as made evident in his list). I digress.

What can we ascertain from conquests Seventeen through Thirty-Two?

Well, he's got a "huge dick." Thanks, Seventeen.

Apart from discovering Casanova is well endowed, I am more so excited to spotlight Eighteen. As creepy as this will might sound, I wish I could have witnessed this (OK, I'm sure if I really wanted to, I could find it online somewhere, but observing non-actors doing this - much more intriguing). How does someone even propose that idea?

"Hey, you're short; I'm tall. You stand there; I'll stand here. Open up."

Can it be that simple? Seriously, how does that come up? Also, he didn't really specify - is she a little person or just short? If it's the former, that adds a whole new brilliance. So many questions that I will never have the answers to, meh.

As much as I love Eighteen, bitch doesn't hold a candle to the three "nights" in Cancun (Twenty-Five through Twenty-Seven). Talk about a diverse conglomerate. I almost felt like I was on It's a Small World at Disneyland - the NC-17 version.

I really liked this group. Starting out with freckles, throwing in some nicknames and a pot-purchasing cougar, finishing up with a Ricky Lake lesbian - entertainment at its best.