I’m a twenty-something on the verge of something.
I just know it. I don’t want to make a fuss, but it feels like the body of a blooming woman, the mind of a teenage-girl, and the libido of a teenage-boy.
And you know, the soul of a samurai or something.
The science of being twenty-four: displaced rebellion, falling asleep during yoga, and staring at my cat. Cats. Plural.
That’s just me, though. Miss Messy.
The first column is always the hardest for me. It’s tedious and premature, complete with unfolding layers of narcissism all wrapped up in a bow of plastic promises. “I’ll be writing about this, and I really like this, and I have an interest in this…”
Like public masturbation with a fake orgasm. What’s that quote by Kurt Vonnegut? “We are what we pretend to be, so we must be careful about what we pretend to be.”
I’m Caitlin. I like sex and I have an interest in sex. I have cats. Sometimes when I’m having sex in my apartment, I’ll look over and see my cat staring at me. I don’t know what that means, but does that happen to anyone else?
I was my University’s sex columnist for a few good years. If you think that justifies me having this column, you’re wrong. My sex columns were detrimental to the human spirit and petty. College sex? Come on, that’s a good one. My focus is actual orgasms these days.
Zoom in on the rollercoaster that is reality. That’s what this column is going to be about.
The heart. The hand. The hands that cradle the heart. The heart that beats so hard it jumps from the hands like a fish out of water.
Pardon the metaphor flaunting. I’ll be exploiting the electricity between sex and emotions.
I’ve also been a stripper for the last three years if that adds any street cred. It’s been fascinating selling false lust as an independent contractor every night. Really puts things into perspective. Exhibitionism is a profound affair I have no intention of ending anytime soon. Topless magic stings deep. The romance of strangers is a dangerous yet rewarding one. Expect plenty of reporting from the underbelly of society. It’s dark down here and sweaty, but we’ve still got a pulse.
But sometimes I wish we didn’t.
Look, running around in a lace bra and panties with a bottle of champagne doesn’t hurt the soul. But it doesn’t exactly turn on the glow either. I’ll recover the love-hate vibrations of the stripping-lie for curious readers. But be careful, it can kill.
Don’t be alarmed. I’m not your typical money-hungry bitch. I mean, I am, but I have layers too. Feminism is important to me. I take leadership roles in a few feminist groups in my community. I enjoy a good goddess circle and menstrual art piece. I dig girl power and consider myself to be a new-age lover who has too much smelly, Coachella-inspired sex with vegan boys.
These six-inch stripper heels are digging into my feet with suggestion. For what. I don’t know yet, but my spidey-senses are tingling. My laptop says it’s six-fourteen in the morning. My mind says it’s time for another episode of Sixteen and Pregnant. And my eyes are saying “Shut.” But my ears are on dawn patrol.
Outside, the early bird is singing a song. It sounds refreshed and hopeful.
Like it’s on the verge of something.
(All photos by Raven Yeh)