10.28.2011
10.25.2011
18
I'm writing this a day before my 19th birthday. Just a year ago I dropped out of art school, scraping whatever minimal plans I formed during my high school years. In fact, I left art school before turning eighteen. In the United States, turning eighteen basically means two things: you are "legal" and you can buy cigarettes. I wouldn't really take advantage of either one until the new year began.
I never thought that I would experience more freedom being with boys than girls. I identified as a queer girl, and loosely as a lesbian, for the past two years; not too long after turning eighteen, I became more interested in boys again. And I took up that interest. For the record, I haven't been with very many girls. They make me nervous. But that's a different subject altogether.
Dating boys was awkward. I didn't know what exactly to do. Essentially, I still don't. Most of my experiences with them this year can be attributed to the fact that I have felt, for the most part, that I can do anything with them. My feeling that my life is, or should be, a Sofia Coppola film helped me rationalize my strange decisions.
"Don't think--just do. It will be a story later."
The first boy came in January. He left a mark. He changed me in ways that I do not know how to communicate yet. Afterwards the boys kept flowing along. Being an 18-year-old girls means something special to American boys (and some men.) I smoked cigarettes to deal with it.
Despite being a total pain in my ass, boys inspired me this year, specifically in entries I wrote on my blog. Often my friends--and strangers--told me to be careful about sharing too much, despite the majority of the entries being posted to my personal blog rather than my more popular one. I feel like I shared my personal life for the sake of helping myself. If doing so has hurt me, I haven't noticed. Writing is a way of personal healing.
Moving forward, I'm sure I remember more of the boys I knew when I was eighteen than what is written. Eventually, none of it will matter, if it even does today...
1.
I sat in Cafe Zoetrope. You were late but I was nervous and wanted to fix my hair so I didn’t mind anyway. It was 2:00. The place was close to empty. I had chosen the booth in the back because I thought I looked the best sitting there. Like, when you entered through the doors, it would look perfect. Francis’s Sofia wines were sitting in a basket next to me.
When you came, I thought, wow, how skinny. You handed me your business card and I said, “this is where you work?” I was not sly at all. You already knew I was impressed. What a game.
We walked through Chinatown with your arm around me. Then you stopped me and we made out on the street. I thought, “if I was anyone else I’d hate us.” You tasted like cigarettes and mint. What a fucking game.
We went to your house. On the bus we looked like a couple. You massaged my hands. What a lie.
We laid together. I asked you to play “Playground Love.” I felt you on my skin. This is, I’m guessing, the part I should leave out.
When night fell I helped you choose your clothes. We said bye near my train. And then you told me a lie.
You don’t remember. Or you don’t care. I won’t forget it.
2.
A week ago I met a couple. The girl was really pretty and the guy was average, and they are nearly a decade apart in age, but they were both nice. They told me I was cute. They paid for my movie, expensive tea and dessert and invited me to their downtown loft. I had never actually been in a place like that before, it’s ideally where I’d be living now if I could afford it. I introduced them to Toro y Moi and we talked about Scarlett Johansson.
They met each other at a music festival in Texas by pure chance. He kept asking me whether or not I found his girlfriend to be attractive. I observed her and she looked like she wanted to leave. Or, at least, she looked at me like I was to bring something new to their relationship. I’ve never dealt romantically with a couple before. I had already made up in my mind that I could not have anything with these people. So I thanked them and left.
Over the weekend I finally saw a boy I’ve been meaning to break it off with for the past few months. I didn’t know how to tell him, so I put it off for so long. After spending a couple of hours with him, I realized he already knew. He still offered me whiskey and his jacket. I accepted the former and declined the latter. I felt like shit.
3.
LIVING IN SF MEANS that you’re connected to everyone. That guy you met off that dating site went to the same high school as you but graduated one year ahead. And what do you know, you have vague memories of seeing him around but you were too young to date him at the time so what did it matter? The city’s small enough that you two have met again. Living in SF means reppin a muni line even though you hate muni. It means knowing which muni employees are the nice ones and which ones are the worst. It means being confused as to why your friends are texting IM-style, that is, until you get an iPhone. It means making fun of all the hipsters in the Mission even though your friends are hipsters in the Mission. Living in SF as an 18-year old native means that you want to move out, but be real, everyone knows you can’t afford the rent. Living in SF as a native means that you roll your eyes when you hear others claim being from SF though they’re really from Daly City.
Living in SF as a native means having other natives ask you, “are you tired of it yet?” And at 18, you’re like, “yeah.” And you’re at Dolores Park even though you claimed you were “over” it 2 years ago because, be real, you’ll never leave it, and you’re smoking on the grass with people you’ve never met before but they look like your friends, they’re all wearing cuffed jeans, v-necks, wayfarers and chrome bags so it doesn’t matter anyway. Then you take the bus home and your friends from Oakland text you to make more DP plans, except not when it’s so windy because “I really didn’t think SF was this cold.”
Oh wait, maybe this is just me.
4.
He turned to me and said, “we’re the best looking people here.”
He smelled like mints and cigarettes.
He held my hand.
5.
He looked me up and down and said, “you weigh less than 100 pounds, don’t you?”
Flustered, I immediately giggled and yelled, “no!!” I felt guilty for taking that as a compliment.
Later, he correctly guessed my clothing and shoe size. I was sold on him.
He also asked, “are your shoes Chanel?”
“Yes. These are my walking shoes.”
“Oh. These are my walking shoes. They’re Armani.”
I smirked so big, thinking back on it now, I want to slap myself for it.
6.
I’ve been busy getting boys upset with me,
Drinking their whiskey,
Not touching them,
Not laughing at their jokes,
Avoiding them,
Spending my days alone,
Dressing up silk.
7.
I’m sitting on the train next to this beautiful creature with luscious lips and the most amazing side profile. As I’m typing this I hope he looks over and sees it.
Have I really lost it? I honestly feel nervous doing this right now.
Fuck, he’s not looking. He just threw his head back and closed his eyes. I guess he’s tired. This isn’t helping. He has a beauty mark above his lip. I want to lick it. I want to trace his face.
8.
It was late afternoon. I was lying naked on your bed. I watched you throw on your shirt, coat, jeans, and wipe your mouth. You went outside to smoke a cigarette. I wondered if the people who passed by you outside could guess that you had a naked girl on your bed. I thought it would be so obvious, maybe it was the way your hair was messy, maybe it was the way your eyes looked different.
Lying alone in your room, I wondered if I should get up and search through your drawers. But instead I just laid there, smelled the sheets, wrapped your blankets between my legs. I saw the marks I left on your pillowcase. I saw the picture of your son on the wall and then I looked away. I had no business seeing his face.
When you came back, you asked, “find anything interesting?” I told you I didn’t get up. “How boring,” you said with a smile. You looked at my face then my body. You took off your clothes. I stared at your belly button, your happy trail, my eyes lowered.
My mind wanders to the space between and I think, “you were here.”
9.
I smothered your face in kisses. Your nose protruded in a way so different from mine that I had to trace it with my mouth.
My lips went to your neck and you said, “if you give me a hickey I’ll kill you.”
We matched one another in vanity.
You were quite the charmer.
10.
I laid naked on your bed. You walked over to your laptop, put a new song on. You glanced over at my Breathless shirt, slung over your chair. “I look like the girl in the movie,” you said, obviously referring to Jean Seberg. You made a cute face imitating her.
“I think you look more like Belmondo,” I replied, which was true. You looked absolutely nothing like Jean. She was far prettier than you. You were what I’d call “handsome.” Or maybe “charming.”
I asked you who I reminded you of. You said some Chinese female character from maybe a 40s or 50s American film. “Of course,” I thought. “Mysterious, like an enigma,” you added. I laughed like I thought it was a good answer but really I thought you were being kind of dumb.
11.
Avoid these boys at all costs:
1) Boys who call themselves lesbians. They are not lesbians.
2) Boys who admit they’re assholes. You may think, “well, all my friends are assholes too so it should be okay,” but you’re wrong. Your friends may be assholes. But at least you don’t sleep with them.
12.
Him: “You know how some assholes call themselves lesbians because they’ve eaten pussy once? Well I’m a lesbian for many other reasons than that.”
Me: “And what would those be?”
“I like being little spoon.”
“Ok.”
“And the rest you’ll have to see later.”
13.
When it’s close to midnight and guys on the train with their passed out girlfriends sitting on their lap check me out, I just think, my god, what a filthy world.
14.
I like to assign songs to people, saying, “this is our song.”
That way, it’ll always be ours, they’ll always think of me, I’ll always think of them. Even if it isn’t for the best.
After all, who doesn’t remember a lover’s song?
15.
I’m surprised I don’t remember what you wore that day. I remember what I wore in great detail. Probably because I had worried so much about it.
You studied film, so I wore my Breathless shirt. I was pretty sure you had mentioned that you like Godard. Also, you know, the shirt is slightly sheer so you could make out the lines of my black lace bra. That was intentional. The rest of the outfit was just what I felt comfortable in—my leather jacket, black tights, a skirt, and flats. And of course, my Balenciaga bag, a trusted friend. I also threw on a scarf because it was cold. Even though this was an outfit I wore all the time, I still thought it over countlessly before I left the house. I even fidgeted with it while I was on the bus. Even while I sat at the cafe waiting for you…
My outfit had a quiet sort of luxury. I knew you liked fashion. What kind of fashion, I didn’t know. But the clothes, apart from the obvious quilted flats with the interlocking C’s on the toe, were sans labels. The tshirt has a visible “Rodarte” on the back, but I wore a jacket. You would have to have the eye to pick up the fine cotton, the hand stitched edges. Same with the Balenciaga—no one knows it’s Balenciaga unless they are familiar with the bags. Or, one could appreciate its delicate lambskin leather and unique vibrant color. Which you did. You had the eye.
Back to you. You wore a dark coat, that much I’m sure of. I remember our walk through Chinatown, the way you wrapped the wool around yourself before you grabbed my arm to wrap around yourself. You also wore skinny jeans—your stick thin legs are a detail I remember quite well. But the rest, I’m not so sure. What I remember is your hair, your cigarette stench, the way you wiped your lips with your fingers like Jean-Paul Belmondo in Breathless. And the way you threw on your Raybans, I thought you looked so cool.
16.
I’ve always thought life would be easier as a boy, I’ve always thought I knew exactly what kind of boy I’d be. But maybe if I was a boy, I’d think I know exactly what kind of girl I’d be. And the reality is it’s not so easy to be human, boy or girl or otherwise…
17.
Do you remember at 18, falling in love (lust) with a 22-year-old boy? And you had a conversation that went something like…
You: You know, I just turned 18 in October.
Him: [smiling] Oh, really? Congratulations.
You: Yeah, thanks.
Him: [under breath] Oh god, I’m like a pedophile.
You: Shut up!
Him: It's kind of hot.
18.
You wanted to know why I was in so much pain, and I told you the story of how I had been assaulted at age 14. Or maybe it was 13, I didn’t remember because that wasn’t the point. You nodded your head, you seemed to understand. “Here, I’ll get naked too, I’ll turn the lights off. It’ll change the mood,” you said. We took a break from being rowdy and you held me in your arms.
I felt the tip of your nose against my the back of my head, our toes touching. After a few minutes, I heard you snoring. Later you said that meant you felt comfortable around me. “I feel like I’ve known you forever,” you said.
I smiled at you, because I thought I finally had someone.
“This is me being nice,” you said. “This’ll wear off in about 5 minutes.” And it did, because you’re a boy. One time, this other boy on the internet told me that with boys, there’s only ever a head, heart, or dick operating. And for you, it’s not hard to guess which one you make decisions with.
I want to promise myself that this is the last story I’ll write about you, but I know it’s not true. I don’t know why it’s so hard to heal from you. But it is.
These days, I still think about the possibility of running into you, staring at your face, not knowing what to say. Do you even remember?
19.
I’ve had the cute first dates: art museums, curiosity shoppes, drives to the Pacific Ocean.
I’ve had the other first dates: making out in the streets, meeting the potent stench of cigarettes (my first time), tasting what men want me to believe is God.
The only conclusion I’ve come to is that I hate first dates.
20.
Me: I want to be in a Sofia Coppola film.
Him: I hope you don’t mean Somewhere.
Me: Hah. No, I meant a new one.
Him: you’ll need a male protagonist.
Me: What do you think the film should be about?
Him: an existential struggle to find meaning in a post-counter-culture dystopian society, of course.
Note: I liked 'Somewhere,' idiot.
21.
I don’t know why, but I have this thing about boys putting lipstick on. I think it’s cute. I always say it as a joke, but they always end up wearing it.
“I think you should wear lipstick.”
“Um, no.”
“If you wear it I’ll lick it off of you.”
That’s all it takes. That was Saturday. “Do you have any on you?” he asked. I didn’t. We walked to a drugstore and he paid $8 for a tube of red lipstick.
“I know somewhere we can go. I’m positive you don’t know about it.” Bring me, you take the lead, I told him. We walked to the St. Francis. “You have a room here?” I asked. Fancy place for a college student. He said no, it’s not a room. We took the glass elevator to the 27th floor.
We walked down the hallways with his arm around me and he seemed to be lost. Finally he opened an unmarked door and we were out on a balcony. In that moment I felt an extreme sentimentality for San Francisco—it felt like my blood. And the people appeared to be harmless from so far up in the sky.
“Do you like my city?” I asked. “Does it make you feel claustrophobic?” He said yes to both.
“Give me the lipstick,” I said. He flinched as I painted his upper lip. “Now, come here,” I said. And that was that.
We spent maybe the next hour on that balcony. I could tell he was nervous. But I liked that. It was sweet. I had work at 8 pm and he walked with me. “Am I going to see you tomorrow?” I asked. “I’ll call you,” he said.
22.
I didn’t see him today. Maybe I’ll see him in a year. Maybe I won’t see him again.
He kept saying how I was “different.” He said, “when I first saw you I thought you were just a quiet fobby Asian girl. But you’re crazy. And different. In a good way.” I didn’t know it then, but he apparently didn’t know what he was asking for when he said we would meet up to “have some fun.”
I don’t know, he didn’t seem to hesitate (too much) to put his arm around me. I suppose I was walking next to him closer than I realized. But I guess he wasn’t expecting me to be so forward—I mean, the boy had 3 more days in my city. Why waste time?
I liked it when he spoke Mandarin to me. I thought it was really sexy. It made me realize how different it really feels to date another Chinese person. “Asian guys don’t like me here,” I said. “They like long-haired pretty Korean girls. I’m like a boy to them.” I guess it’s not worth quoting his response to that. Almost everything he said struck me as cute.
After the drama of our 2 am texts last night, I said “you make me realize I don’t understand boys at all.” He replied, “you do. I’m just different.”
He is. That’s what I like about him. For the first time I was with a guy who was less experienced than me. And it made an extreme difference. He was less arrogant. Sweeter. He made me laugh. But ultimately his lack of confidence (and his scheduled flight) forced us to come to an end. At least, for now.
I admit I spent all of today feeling like shit. I fell asleep at 3 am and woke up at 5 am because I felt sick to my stomach. I don’t know if it was specifically him I was upset about. Maybe I was projecting the disappointments of my lifetime on him. I asked him multiple times to see me one last time today, and it didn’t happen. I just don’t understand that. Boys have taken me out to fancy dinners and sweet dates without even getting a peck on the cheek, let alone get what he experienced with me. But I suppose that’s the problem. I liked him because he was simple. And that’s what made him different.
23.
Note: If you see someone who sparks your interest on public transport,
1) having your earphones plugged in means conversation is not likely
2) reading a book means conversation is more likely
Need to read more while riding muni.
24.
San Francisco is a funny place to be single in.
25.
“I’m really glad you showed me this place,” I said. I genuinely liked it. Three minutes from Union Square. Incredible view. One I would remember, I thought.
“Yeah, so you can fuck other guys here,” he said, smiling.
We had two days left. We hadn’t fucked yet. I thought about it the whole time. He always smiled whenever I flirted. But looking back, I guess he was more dumbfounded as to how that was really happening more than anything. He said he thought I was a quiet, shy girl. Instead I showed him my crazed Scorpio side. I liked the idea of him having a story of an interesting San Francisco affair to tell.
The night before his last day, he asked me why I had let him get so close, so fast. I didn’t understand then (or now) his worries. The way I’ve always known it is that guys sleep around with whoever they want and don’t give a shit about it. In a way, it made me mad. Because it was finally one of the times when I didn’t really give a shit. But for some reason, he did.
My mind constantly wanders back to the couple of hours we spent in that spot. From the moment he showed it to me, I thought about what a sweet place it’d be to smoke cigarettes. I’ve thought about going up there and smoking several times but I still haven’t been able to go. I’m scared of how I’ll feel standing there, whether I’m alone or with people. He isn’t anyone important to me, but still there was a time when he held me there. A time when we had absolutely zero space between us. I’m not saying it was romantic, I don’t know what it was. I knew I was projecting feelings onto the experience because I like when my life mirrors films. But maybe, for him, I was just too much.
26.
Countless times I looked outside and swore I saw you. I guess, subconsciously, I really wanted to. For months I avoided coming here because I had a feeling you were always here. I imagined you never left your table. Drinking coffee. Romancing other girls. With your tired eyes.
It’s happened at least twice now. I see someone from behind and they have your hair, your hands. Those are the two things I always notice. For a split second I freeze. But it’s never you. It doesn’t occur to me that maybe you moved. Maybe you gained weight. But those are both hypothetical situations. I will never know.
Even though I’ve sworn to be over you I continue to write about you. Always when I reflect on dating I think of you first.
We once stood here and danced. Had I been an observer maybe I would’ve thought, these fools are ruining my peace. Instead we were busy being young and beautiful. More importantly, we were young and beautiful together. A moment that will never return.
27.
I sometimes feel so regretful about things I wrote. Usually they are about boys. Did he really affect me that much? I hate to say it, but yes. I like to think that I’ve become less vulnerable, more disconnected.
The truth is, I probably haven’t.
I cannot believe how many times this year I’ve walked down the streets of my beloved city alongside some boy who wanted something from me. Maybe I shouldn’t say that, maybe what I mean is that they all enjoyed my company. It is interesting to me. I can do nothing. Just walk with them. Sit across from them sipping coffee. And they’ll be happy. It’s like I don’t have to be anything, and they don’t necessarily want me to be anything. Usually while I’m talking I can’t help but imagine that my words are floating and they are only imagining me naked. If I found this to be true, I couldn’t be mad. Because I already knew.
Being a girl. It's so hard. But it's strange when everything in life seems so predictable.
At times I’ve thought of doing foolish things like scribble “For a good time call ____ (415) —- ——” in bathroom stalls. But I always stop myself because I think it would help me preserve my dignity. Still, that fucker deserves something bad, I think. Yet I cannot bring myself to do it.
If we sit and smile on the train together, eventually everyone will be jealous. I guarantee this, no matter what.
28.
Too many new romantic possibilities.
Not enough friendly possibilities.
My life is turning lopsided.
Never thought it’d be like this. I’ve always thought it would be nice to be busy dating. But actually, it’s tiring.
Solitude really is the greatest luxury.
30.
He texted me at 5:55 in the morning. The moment between dreaming and waking.
At this time of day, I am never sure that I am really conscious.
He said “I want to be inside you.”
I said “I want you inside of me.”
I’m sure that was real.
31.
"And that's what fucking feels like."
I got off my knees and onto my back. I was bewildered. I was naked in bed with him. A moment ago he had been between my legs.
“You are a really beautiful girl,” he said. He wiped the corners of his lips. He was a smoker and had a tendency to draw attention to his lips. I liked his lips. They seemed expressive. I liked his tired eyes. They were eyes that smiled. And I liked his hands. They were the hands of an American boy. The stench of tobacco and discoloration of coffee stains. I sensed freedom in his hands. He explored my body free of restrictions, the demons that have always kept me from understanding my own body.
It was 4 pm. The world outside seemed so calm. The light that shone through his window made our naked bodies appear soft. Like a dream. His finger was in my mouth. I sucked.
Boys. They smile and moan. I memorize their gazes and their tongues on my chest. Their faces when they cum. It’s what fucking feels like. Skin and insides. I always thought fucking would be intimate. But I thought only of myself and how separate my body felt from his body.
32.
Getting laid in San Francisco is not hard. Something about the energy here.. everyone is so close, but deeply preoccupied with themselves, people want romance but think, oh god why is there no space? It feels like you’re sleeping with the same people over and over again. And in San Francisco nothing is shocking. You sleep with a 30 year old internet start-up employee and it’s whatever. You sleep with friends of friends and guys you went to high school with, but only because it’s legal now. There are the tourist summer flings. Then the thousands of recycled hipster boys who all like that you’re Asian and you like Wes Anderson.
Everyone has their own spot they’ve marked as special. The view of the city may be particularly beautiful, or it’s secluded and not too foggy. This is the spot they bring lovers to for making out. Smoking cigarettes. Maybe giving handjobs. They have a specific route for a romantic walk afterwards—each time, they remember what failed with past lovers and they try something new. A different turn. A different line. Maybe just different timing. It’s hard to think of it as anything but an experiment. A lesson in writing a good screenplay.
When I see two people on the street who look like a couple, I don’t assume anymore. Chances are they’re on their first date. Chances are one is going to walk the other to muni after fucking. San Francisco was made for walkers. It’s nice to walk together. Never take the bus together after sex. Take it alone. Sleep on the train. Grin. Or sit there and stare at your reflection. Just be content for a while.
33.
I wash down the taste of cum with coffee.
Coffee, cigarettes, and cum—my American life.
There is nothing like lying in bed naked at 3 pm. I look at my nipples hardened. The stretch marks on my thighs. Have you ever traced yourself? At times my fingers feel foreign.
The cigarette burn on my hand has faded. I remember it fondly…
34.
there's something about cold hands
the feeling of hunger
the smell of cigarettes on my fingers
that have particularly appealed to me lately
35.
36.
we drove down market street and
I unbuttoned my dress
it was nine o'clock and the street
as full as ever with its soldiers
I moaned for you and turned
to see you
we drove through north beach and
at the stop sign you wiped
your cum with
your shirt
I never thought that I would experience more freedom being with boys than girls. I identified as a queer girl, and loosely as a lesbian, for the past two years; not too long after turning eighteen, I became more interested in boys again. And I took up that interest. For the record, I haven't been with very many girls. They make me nervous. But that's a different subject altogether.
Dating boys was awkward. I didn't know what exactly to do. Essentially, I still don't. Most of my experiences with them this year can be attributed to the fact that I have felt, for the most part, that I can do anything with them. My feeling that my life is, or should be, a Sofia Coppola film helped me rationalize my strange decisions.
"Don't think--just do. It will be a story later."
The first boy came in January. He left a mark. He changed me in ways that I do not know how to communicate yet. Afterwards the boys kept flowing along. Being an 18-year-old girls means something special to American boys (and some men.) I smoked cigarettes to deal with it.
Despite being a total pain in my ass, boys inspired me this year, specifically in entries I wrote on my blog. Often my friends--and strangers--told me to be careful about sharing too much, despite the majority of the entries being posted to my personal blog rather than my more popular one. I feel like I shared my personal life for the sake of helping myself. If doing so has hurt me, I haven't noticed. Writing is a way of personal healing.
Moving forward, I'm sure I remember more of the boys I knew when I was eighteen than what is written. Eventually, none of it will matter, if it even does today...
1.
I sat in Cafe Zoetrope. You were late but I was nervous and wanted to fix my hair so I didn’t mind anyway. It was 2:00. The place was close to empty. I had chosen the booth in the back because I thought I looked the best sitting there. Like, when you entered through the doors, it would look perfect. Francis’s Sofia wines were sitting in a basket next to me.
When you came, I thought, wow, how skinny. You handed me your business card and I said, “this is where you work?” I was not sly at all. You already knew I was impressed. What a game.
We walked through Chinatown with your arm around me. Then you stopped me and we made out on the street. I thought, “if I was anyone else I’d hate us.” You tasted like cigarettes and mint. What a fucking game.
We went to your house. On the bus we looked like a couple. You massaged my hands. What a lie.
We laid together. I asked you to play “Playground Love.” I felt you on my skin. This is, I’m guessing, the part I should leave out.
When night fell I helped you choose your clothes. We said bye near my train. And then you told me a lie.
You don’t remember. Or you don’t care. I won’t forget it.
2.
A week ago I met a couple. The girl was really pretty and the guy was average, and they are nearly a decade apart in age, but they were both nice. They told me I was cute. They paid for my movie, expensive tea and dessert and invited me to their downtown loft. I had never actually been in a place like that before, it’s ideally where I’d be living now if I could afford it. I introduced them to Toro y Moi and we talked about Scarlett Johansson.
They met each other at a music festival in Texas by pure chance. He kept asking me whether or not I found his girlfriend to be attractive. I observed her and she looked like she wanted to leave. Or, at least, she looked at me like I was to bring something new to their relationship. I’ve never dealt romantically with a couple before. I had already made up in my mind that I could not have anything with these people. So I thanked them and left.
Over the weekend I finally saw a boy I’ve been meaning to break it off with for the past few months. I didn’t know how to tell him, so I put it off for so long. After spending a couple of hours with him, I realized he already knew. He still offered me whiskey and his jacket. I accepted the former and declined the latter. I felt like shit.
3.
LIVING IN SF MEANS that you’re connected to everyone. That guy you met off that dating site went to the same high school as you but graduated one year ahead. And what do you know, you have vague memories of seeing him around but you were too young to date him at the time so what did it matter? The city’s small enough that you two have met again. Living in SF means reppin a muni line even though you hate muni. It means knowing which muni employees are the nice ones and which ones are the worst. It means being confused as to why your friends are texting IM-style, that is, until you get an iPhone. It means making fun of all the hipsters in the Mission even though your friends are hipsters in the Mission. Living in SF as an 18-year old native means that you want to move out, but be real, everyone knows you can’t afford the rent. Living in SF as a native means that you roll your eyes when you hear others claim being from SF though they’re really from Daly City.
Living in SF as a native means having other natives ask you, “are you tired of it yet?” And at 18, you’re like, “yeah.” And you’re at Dolores Park even though you claimed you were “over” it 2 years ago because, be real, you’ll never leave it, and you’re smoking on the grass with people you’ve never met before but they look like your friends, they’re all wearing cuffed jeans, v-necks, wayfarers and chrome bags so it doesn’t matter anyway. Then you take the bus home and your friends from Oakland text you to make more DP plans, except not when it’s so windy because “I really didn’t think SF was this cold.”
Oh wait, maybe this is just me.
4.
He turned to me and said, “we’re the best looking people here.”
He smelled like mints and cigarettes.
He held my hand.
5.
He looked me up and down and said, “you weigh less than 100 pounds, don’t you?”
Flustered, I immediately giggled and yelled, “no!!” I felt guilty for taking that as a compliment.
Later, he correctly guessed my clothing and shoe size. I was sold on him.
He also asked, “are your shoes Chanel?”
“Yes. These are my walking shoes.”
“Oh. These are my walking shoes. They’re Armani.”
I smirked so big, thinking back on it now, I want to slap myself for it.
6.
I’ve been busy getting boys upset with me,
Drinking their whiskey,
Not touching them,
Not laughing at their jokes,
Avoiding them,
Spending my days alone,
Dressing up silk.
7.
I’m sitting on the train next to this beautiful creature with luscious lips and the most amazing side profile. As I’m typing this I hope he looks over and sees it.
Have I really lost it? I honestly feel nervous doing this right now.
Fuck, he’s not looking. He just threw his head back and closed his eyes. I guess he’s tired. This isn’t helping. He has a beauty mark above his lip. I want to lick it. I want to trace his face.
8.
It was late afternoon. I was lying naked on your bed. I watched you throw on your shirt, coat, jeans, and wipe your mouth. You went outside to smoke a cigarette. I wondered if the people who passed by you outside could guess that you had a naked girl on your bed. I thought it would be so obvious, maybe it was the way your hair was messy, maybe it was the way your eyes looked different.
Lying alone in your room, I wondered if I should get up and search through your drawers. But instead I just laid there, smelled the sheets, wrapped your blankets between my legs. I saw the marks I left on your pillowcase. I saw the picture of your son on the wall and then I looked away. I had no business seeing his face.
When you came back, you asked, “find anything interesting?” I told you I didn’t get up. “How boring,” you said with a smile. You looked at my face then my body. You took off your clothes. I stared at your belly button, your happy trail, my eyes lowered.
My mind wanders to the space between and I think, “you were here.”
9.
I smothered your face in kisses. Your nose protruded in a way so different from mine that I had to trace it with my mouth.
My lips went to your neck and you said, “if you give me a hickey I’ll kill you.”
We matched one another in vanity.
You were quite the charmer.
10.
I laid naked on your bed. You walked over to your laptop, put a new song on. You glanced over at my Breathless shirt, slung over your chair. “I look like the girl in the movie,” you said, obviously referring to Jean Seberg. You made a cute face imitating her.
“I think you look more like Belmondo,” I replied, which was true. You looked absolutely nothing like Jean. She was far prettier than you. You were what I’d call “handsome.” Or maybe “charming.”
I asked you who I reminded you of. You said some Chinese female character from maybe a 40s or 50s American film. “Of course,” I thought. “Mysterious, like an enigma,” you added. I laughed like I thought it was a good answer but really I thought you were being kind of dumb.
11.
Avoid these boys at all costs:
1) Boys who call themselves lesbians. They are not lesbians.
2) Boys who admit they’re assholes. You may think, “well, all my friends are assholes too so it should be okay,” but you’re wrong. Your friends may be assholes. But at least you don’t sleep with them.
12.
Him: “You know how some assholes call themselves lesbians because they’ve eaten pussy once? Well I’m a lesbian for many other reasons than that.”
Me: “And what would those be?”
“I like being little spoon.”
“Ok.”
“And the rest you’ll have to see later.”
13.
When it’s close to midnight and guys on the train with their passed out girlfriends sitting on their lap check me out, I just think, my god, what a filthy world.
14.
I like to assign songs to people, saying, “this is our song.”
That way, it’ll always be ours, they’ll always think of me, I’ll always think of them. Even if it isn’t for the best.
After all, who doesn’t remember a lover’s song?
15.
I’m surprised I don’t remember what you wore that day. I remember what I wore in great detail. Probably because I had worried so much about it.
You studied film, so I wore my Breathless shirt. I was pretty sure you had mentioned that you like Godard. Also, you know, the shirt is slightly sheer so you could make out the lines of my black lace bra. That was intentional. The rest of the outfit was just what I felt comfortable in—my leather jacket, black tights, a skirt, and flats. And of course, my Balenciaga bag, a trusted friend. I also threw on a scarf because it was cold. Even though this was an outfit I wore all the time, I still thought it over countlessly before I left the house. I even fidgeted with it while I was on the bus. Even while I sat at the cafe waiting for you…
My outfit had a quiet sort of luxury. I knew you liked fashion. What kind of fashion, I didn’t know. But the clothes, apart from the obvious quilted flats with the interlocking C’s on the toe, were sans labels. The tshirt has a visible “Rodarte” on the back, but I wore a jacket. You would have to have the eye to pick up the fine cotton, the hand stitched edges. Same with the Balenciaga—no one knows it’s Balenciaga unless they are familiar with the bags. Or, one could appreciate its delicate lambskin leather and unique vibrant color. Which you did. You had the eye.
Back to you. You wore a dark coat, that much I’m sure of. I remember our walk through Chinatown, the way you wrapped the wool around yourself before you grabbed my arm to wrap around yourself. You also wore skinny jeans—your stick thin legs are a detail I remember quite well. But the rest, I’m not so sure. What I remember is your hair, your cigarette stench, the way you wiped your lips with your fingers like Jean-Paul Belmondo in Breathless. And the way you threw on your Raybans, I thought you looked so cool.
16.
I’ve always thought life would be easier as a boy, I’ve always thought I knew exactly what kind of boy I’d be. But maybe if I was a boy, I’d think I know exactly what kind of girl I’d be. And the reality is it’s not so easy to be human, boy or girl or otherwise…
17.
Do you remember at 18, falling in love (lust) with a 22-year-old boy? And you had a conversation that went something like…
You: You know, I just turned 18 in October.
Him: [smiling] Oh, really? Congratulations.
You: Yeah, thanks.
Him: [under breath] Oh god, I’m like a pedophile.
You: Shut up!
Him: It's kind of hot.
18.
You wanted to know why I was in so much pain, and I told you the story of how I had been assaulted at age 14. Or maybe it was 13, I didn’t remember because that wasn’t the point. You nodded your head, you seemed to understand. “Here, I’ll get naked too, I’ll turn the lights off. It’ll change the mood,” you said. We took a break from being rowdy and you held me in your arms.
I felt the tip of your nose against my the back of my head, our toes touching. After a few minutes, I heard you snoring. Later you said that meant you felt comfortable around me. “I feel like I’ve known you forever,” you said.
I smiled at you, because I thought I finally had someone.
“This is me being nice,” you said. “This’ll wear off in about 5 minutes.” And it did, because you’re a boy. One time, this other boy on the internet told me that with boys, there’s only ever a head, heart, or dick operating. And for you, it’s not hard to guess which one you make decisions with.
I want to promise myself that this is the last story I’ll write about you, but I know it’s not true. I don’t know why it’s so hard to heal from you. But it is.
These days, I still think about the possibility of running into you, staring at your face, not knowing what to say. Do you even remember?
19.
I’ve had the cute first dates: art museums, curiosity shoppes, drives to the Pacific Ocean.
I’ve had the other first dates: making out in the streets, meeting the potent stench of cigarettes (my first time), tasting what men want me to believe is God.
The only conclusion I’ve come to is that I hate first dates.
20.
Me: I want to be in a Sofia Coppola film.
Him: I hope you don’t mean Somewhere.
Me: Hah. No, I meant a new one.
Him: you’ll need a male protagonist.
Me: What do you think the film should be about?
Him: an existential struggle to find meaning in a post-counter-culture dystopian society, of course.
Note: I liked 'Somewhere,' idiot.
21.
I don’t know why, but I have this thing about boys putting lipstick on. I think it’s cute. I always say it as a joke, but they always end up wearing it.
“I think you should wear lipstick.”
“Um, no.”
“If you wear it I’ll lick it off of you.”
That’s all it takes. That was Saturday. “Do you have any on you?” he asked. I didn’t. We walked to a drugstore and he paid $8 for a tube of red lipstick.
“I know somewhere we can go. I’m positive you don’t know about it.” Bring me, you take the lead, I told him. We walked to the St. Francis. “You have a room here?” I asked. Fancy place for a college student. He said no, it’s not a room. We took the glass elevator to the 27th floor.
We walked down the hallways with his arm around me and he seemed to be lost. Finally he opened an unmarked door and we were out on a balcony. In that moment I felt an extreme sentimentality for San Francisco—it felt like my blood. And the people appeared to be harmless from so far up in the sky.
“Do you like my city?” I asked. “Does it make you feel claustrophobic?” He said yes to both.
“Give me the lipstick,” I said. He flinched as I painted his upper lip. “Now, come here,” I said. And that was that.
We spent maybe the next hour on that balcony. I could tell he was nervous. But I liked that. It was sweet. I had work at 8 pm and he walked with me. “Am I going to see you tomorrow?” I asked. “I’ll call you,” he said.
22.
I didn’t see him today. Maybe I’ll see him in a year. Maybe I won’t see him again.
He kept saying how I was “different.” He said, “when I first saw you I thought you were just a quiet fobby Asian girl. But you’re crazy. And different. In a good way.” I didn’t know it then, but he apparently didn’t know what he was asking for when he said we would meet up to “have some fun.”
I don’t know, he didn’t seem to hesitate (too much) to put his arm around me. I suppose I was walking next to him closer than I realized. But I guess he wasn’t expecting me to be so forward—I mean, the boy had 3 more days in my city. Why waste time?
I liked it when he spoke Mandarin to me. I thought it was really sexy. It made me realize how different it really feels to date another Chinese person. “Asian guys don’t like me here,” I said. “They like long-haired pretty Korean girls. I’m like a boy to them.” I guess it’s not worth quoting his response to that. Almost everything he said struck me as cute.
After the drama of our 2 am texts last night, I said “you make me realize I don’t understand boys at all.” He replied, “you do. I’m just different.”
He is. That’s what I like about him. For the first time I was with a guy who was less experienced than me. And it made an extreme difference. He was less arrogant. Sweeter. He made me laugh. But ultimately his lack of confidence (and his scheduled flight) forced us to come to an end. At least, for now.
I admit I spent all of today feeling like shit. I fell asleep at 3 am and woke up at 5 am because I felt sick to my stomach. I don’t know if it was specifically him I was upset about. Maybe I was projecting the disappointments of my lifetime on him. I asked him multiple times to see me one last time today, and it didn’t happen. I just don’t understand that. Boys have taken me out to fancy dinners and sweet dates without even getting a peck on the cheek, let alone get what he experienced with me. But I suppose that’s the problem. I liked him because he was simple. And that’s what made him different.
23.
Note: If you see someone who sparks your interest on public transport,
1) having your earphones plugged in means conversation is not likely
2) reading a book means conversation is more likely
Need to read more while riding muni.
24.
San Francisco is a funny place to be single in.
25.
“I’m really glad you showed me this place,” I said. I genuinely liked it. Three minutes from Union Square. Incredible view. One I would remember, I thought.
“Yeah, so you can fuck other guys here,” he said, smiling.
We had two days left. We hadn’t fucked yet. I thought about it the whole time. He always smiled whenever I flirted. But looking back, I guess he was more dumbfounded as to how that was really happening more than anything. He said he thought I was a quiet, shy girl. Instead I showed him my crazed Scorpio side. I liked the idea of him having a story of an interesting San Francisco affair to tell.
The night before his last day, he asked me why I had let him get so close, so fast. I didn’t understand then (or now) his worries. The way I’ve always known it is that guys sleep around with whoever they want and don’t give a shit about it. In a way, it made me mad. Because it was finally one of the times when I didn’t really give a shit. But for some reason, he did.
My mind constantly wanders back to the couple of hours we spent in that spot. From the moment he showed it to me, I thought about what a sweet place it’d be to smoke cigarettes. I’ve thought about going up there and smoking several times but I still haven’t been able to go. I’m scared of how I’ll feel standing there, whether I’m alone or with people. He isn’t anyone important to me, but still there was a time when he held me there. A time when we had absolutely zero space between us. I’m not saying it was romantic, I don’t know what it was. I knew I was projecting feelings onto the experience because I like when my life mirrors films. But maybe, for him, I was just too much.
26.
Countless times I looked outside and swore I saw you. I guess, subconsciously, I really wanted to. For months I avoided coming here because I had a feeling you were always here. I imagined you never left your table. Drinking coffee. Romancing other girls. With your tired eyes.
It’s happened at least twice now. I see someone from behind and they have your hair, your hands. Those are the two things I always notice. For a split second I freeze. But it’s never you. It doesn’t occur to me that maybe you moved. Maybe you gained weight. But those are both hypothetical situations. I will never know.
Even though I’ve sworn to be over you I continue to write about you. Always when I reflect on dating I think of you first.
We once stood here and danced. Had I been an observer maybe I would’ve thought, these fools are ruining my peace. Instead we were busy being young and beautiful. More importantly, we were young and beautiful together. A moment that will never return.
27.
I sometimes feel so regretful about things I wrote. Usually they are about boys. Did he really affect me that much? I hate to say it, but yes. I like to think that I’ve become less vulnerable, more disconnected.
The truth is, I probably haven’t.
I cannot believe how many times this year I’ve walked down the streets of my beloved city alongside some boy who wanted something from me. Maybe I shouldn’t say that, maybe what I mean is that they all enjoyed my company. It is interesting to me. I can do nothing. Just walk with them. Sit across from them sipping coffee. And they’ll be happy. It’s like I don’t have to be anything, and they don’t necessarily want me to be anything. Usually while I’m talking I can’t help but imagine that my words are floating and they are only imagining me naked. If I found this to be true, I couldn’t be mad. Because I already knew.
Being a girl. It's so hard. But it's strange when everything in life seems so predictable.
At times I’ve thought of doing foolish things like scribble “For a good time call ____ (415) —- ——” in bathroom stalls. But I always stop myself because I think it would help me preserve my dignity. Still, that fucker deserves something bad, I think. Yet I cannot bring myself to do it.
If we sit and smile on the train together, eventually everyone will be jealous. I guarantee this, no matter what.
28.
Too many new romantic possibilities.
Not enough friendly possibilities.
My life is turning lopsided.
Never thought it’d be like this. I’ve always thought it would be nice to be busy dating. But actually, it’s tiring.
Solitude really is the greatest luxury.
30.
He texted me at 5:55 in the morning. The moment between dreaming and waking.
At this time of day, I am never sure that I am really conscious.
He said “I want to be inside you.”
I said “I want you inside of me.”
I’m sure that was real.
31.
"And that's what fucking feels like."
I got off my knees and onto my back. I was bewildered. I was naked in bed with him. A moment ago he had been between my legs.
“You are a really beautiful girl,” he said. He wiped the corners of his lips. He was a smoker and had a tendency to draw attention to his lips. I liked his lips. They seemed expressive. I liked his tired eyes. They were eyes that smiled. And I liked his hands. They were the hands of an American boy. The stench of tobacco and discoloration of coffee stains. I sensed freedom in his hands. He explored my body free of restrictions, the demons that have always kept me from understanding my own body.
It was 4 pm. The world outside seemed so calm. The light that shone through his window made our naked bodies appear soft. Like a dream. His finger was in my mouth. I sucked.
Boys. They smile and moan. I memorize their gazes and their tongues on my chest. Their faces when they cum. It’s what fucking feels like. Skin and insides. I always thought fucking would be intimate. But I thought only of myself and how separate my body felt from his body.
32.
Getting laid in San Francisco is not hard. Something about the energy here.. everyone is so close, but deeply preoccupied with themselves, people want romance but think, oh god why is there no space? It feels like you’re sleeping with the same people over and over again. And in San Francisco nothing is shocking. You sleep with a 30 year old internet start-up employee and it’s whatever. You sleep with friends of friends and guys you went to high school with, but only because it’s legal now. There are the tourist summer flings. Then the thousands of recycled hipster boys who all like that you’re Asian and you like Wes Anderson.
Everyone has their own spot they’ve marked as special. The view of the city may be particularly beautiful, or it’s secluded and not too foggy. This is the spot they bring lovers to for making out. Smoking cigarettes. Maybe giving handjobs. They have a specific route for a romantic walk afterwards—each time, they remember what failed with past lovers and they try something new. A different turn. A different line. Maybe just different timing. It’s hard to think of it as anything but an experiment. A lesson in writing a good screenplay.
When I see two people on the street who look like a couple, I don’t assume anymore. Chances are they’re on their first date. Chances are one is going to walk the other to muni after fucking. San Francisco was made for walkers. It’s nice to walk together. Never take the bus together after sex. Take it alone. Sleep on the train. Grin. Or sit there and stare at your reflection. Just be content for a while.
33.
I wash down the taste of cum with coffee.
Coffee, cigarettes, and cum—my American life.
There is nothing like lying in bed naked at 3 pm. I look at my nipples hardened. The stretch marks on my thighs. Have you ever traced yourself? At times my fingers feel foreign.
The cigarette burn on my hand has faded. I remember it fondly…
34.
there's something about cold hands
the feeling of hunger
the smell of cigarettes on my fingers
that have particularly appealed to me lately
35.
“Cum tastes weird,” I said. By “weird," I meant “bad.” But I didn’t say that. It wasn’t his fault that it tasted bad.
“Have you ever tasted cum?” I asked. He said no. Only one boy has ever said yes.
I know being on your knees is supposed to be degrading or something of that sort. But I’ve never felt particularly degraded. After all, sex has never been too personal to me…
He’s moaning and I know what happens next. Yet when my mouth fills, for a second, I cannot think. It’s irrational to me that someone else’s insides are in me. But there is no time to rationalize—maybe no need, even. Without thinking I tilt my head back and it is gone.
We laid down on my bed. Eventually he put his clothes back on but I remained naked. Being young, naked—I had to enjoy this moment. My silk dress was on the floor. My bed was small and laying horizontally, our heads and feet spilled off to the sides. We talked about me for a bit. I guess we touched some more. It was 3:00 and he had to return to the East Bay. My house was quiet again. I got dressed, ate, and walked to the bus stop. My bus came. I rode it alone and fell asleep.
“Have you ever tasted cum?” I asked. He said no. Only one boy has ever said yes.
I know being on your knees is supposed to be degrading or something of that sort. But I’ve never felt particularly degraded. After all, sex has never been too personal to me…
He’s moaning and I know what happens next. Yet when my mouth fills, for a second, I cannot think. It’s irrational to me that someone else’s insides are in me. But there is no time to rationalize—maybe no need, even. Without thinking I tilt my head back and it is gone.
We laid down on my bed. Eventually he put his clothes back on but I remained naked. Being young, naked—I had to enjoy this moment. My silk dress was on the floor. My bed was small and laying horizontally, our heads and feet spilled off to the sides. We talked about me for a bit. I guess we touched some more. It was 3:00 and he had to return to the East Bay. My house was quiet again. I got dressed, ate, and walked to the bus stop. My bus came. I rode it alone and fell asleep.
36.
we drove down market street and
I unbuttoned my dress
it was nine o'clock and the street
as full as ever with its soldiers
I moaned for you and turned
to see you
we drove through north beach and
at the stop sign you wiped
your cum with
your shirt
10.24.2011
四
1
we sat on the sidewalk. the fog of the city wrapped our bodies and made us sleepy. we tried to fill the empty spaces with sex and coffee, anything to keep us from thinking...
2
"you wouldn't smoke if you didn't look so good doing it," he said.
"I don't know." I wasn't really listening to him. I closed my eyes and I couldn't see the smoke. I realized then that smoking maybe was quite useless.
but maybe I smoked because I just needed something to do.
my fingers never strayed far from my lips.
3
for every two people
there is a planet
4
we drove through north beach and
at the stop sign you wiped
your cum with
your shirt
we sat on the sidewalk. the fog of the city wrapped our bodies and made us sleepy. we tried to fill the empty spaces with sex and coffee, anything to keep us from thinking...
2
"you wouldn't smoke if you didn't look so good doing it," he said.
"I don't know." I wasn't really listening to him. I closed my eyes and I couldn't see the smoke. I realized then that smoking maybe was quite useless.
but maybe I smoked because I just needed something to do.
my fingers never strayed far from my lips.
3
for every two people
there is a planet
4
we drove through north beach and
at the stop sign you wiped
your cum with
your shirt
10.17.2011
dear tourists,
as I meet less and less people who are sf natives
and more and more people from southern ca or wherever
I've become more proud of being a native.
it's like a badge of honor
so please, don't call it frisco
and please, don't block up the streets taking stupid photos
and don't complain about the word hella - you are in sf
p.s. if I like you, I'll call you a visitor
if I don't like you, you're a tourist
10.09.2011
Thoughts while waiting in between sets at a regular Saturday night show
There would always be the tall, lanky boys. I always wanted them to notice me but they never seemed to. I was too short. Skinny, but not quite enough… What would sex be like anyway, under these six feet tall giants? Regardless, I appreciated their elbows and collarbones jutting out.
Their legs in black denim looked like chopsticks, so foreign to me. Ever since I noticed legs I’d only known my own muscular pair. I hated them but they did what they were supposed to.
There would always be the couples, inconsiderate of everyone around them. Making out and violating whatever space the strangers had left. I hated couples. If one was more attractive than the other it was a shame. I preferred to be around two people who were just fucking. Sure they would lick and stare at each other but they also looked around the room to find new people to fuck. Couples were disgusting. Intimacy was painful to watch.
It was very fun to watch white boys dance. I appreciated the ones who danced more than those who stood there, unsure of their bodies. Loosen up, I thought. Look at your legs—just move the damn things. There was a boy with messy brown hair and an extremely toothy smile. He would periodically put his arm around the girl beside him but I imagined fucking him anyway. I would kiss and fuck him, I thought…
I reminded myself to smile more often.
Their legs in black denim looked like chopsticks, so foreign to me. Ever since I noticed legs I’d only known my own muscular pair. I hated them but they did what they were supposed to.
There would always be the couples, inconsiderate of everyone around them. Making out and violating whatever space the strangers had left. I hated couples. If one was more attractive than the other it was a shame. I preferred to be around two people who were just fucking. Sure they would lick and stare at each other but they also looked around the room to find new people to fuck. Couples were disgusting. Intimacy was painful to watch.
It was very fun to watch white boys dance. I appreciated the ones who danced more than those who stood there, unsure of their bodies. Loosen up, I thought. Look at your legs—just move the damn things. There was a boy with messy brown hair and an extremely toothy smile. He would periodically put his arm around the girl beside him but I imagined fucking him anyway. I would kiss and fuck him, I thought…
I reminded myself to smile more often.
10.01.2011
Abandoned Sleep
I went to see the Ari Marcopoulos show at Ratio 3 with a friend yesterday. He is one of my favorite photographers. Above is my favorite image from the show. I really want one of his books as a birthday gift... I was first exposed to his work when he contributed to Purple Magazine I think two seasons ago. There was a portrait of Jenny Shimizu and a book of his photographs--the first of a "book loop" and I was in love with how raw and honest his images are.
In them I see the truth of everyday life.
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