“I’m not obsessed with sex, I just can’t stop thinking about it. The performance of it. The awkwardness of it. The drama of it. The moment you realize someone wants your body. Not so much the feeling of it.”

It was this quote from the new Showtime show Fleabag that made me choke on my own breath. The line had just be stated in episode one after Phoebe Waller Bridges (the lead) just got out of bed and rush to get ready for a 2AM one night stand with a random man. A moment I’m very familiar with no matter how tired I was. It’s this line where something clicks with me and I immediately become intrigued, and finished the entire series in one sitting. What can I say, I tend to connect better with media versus people. With media I don’t need to be honest, I can keep it within while the characters and the storyline burns with their ‘truths’.

I’ve always been crazy about firsts, change, and new people or places. When I was young it was going to new towns, a new kid in school or new locations. I remember begging my mom from ages 10-16 to let me go to a new nearby school for the thrill of being forced into meeting new friends, learning a new building layout and having a new plethora of cute boys. I love being uncomfortable. I didn’t know it at the time but my mom was actually saving me because those neighbor schools were actually unfortunately not to get me an education. (As you can CLEARLY tell the school I attended is where I gained all my useful knowledge……) This eventually grew into colleges. First school? Not enough bars and too young looking to get laid. Next was too close to home where I only talked to my high school ex-boyfriend, way too dull and familiar for me. After my 3rd school transfer I realized I needed to chill and find a new “new” or I’d never graduate, plus changing locations every time I got bored was just not realistic. That’s when I found BGSU. A nice place with fantastic people, where I felt like I could call home for a bit, however it’s where I realized how many voids I did have which I’ve talked about before. I found new adventures in one night stands. It was a change, always new and definitely a first.. It’s every parents dream. Nothing was more exciting for me than to go out with my lovely girlfriends, drink until my chest was numb and then find a new boy to fall in love with for a few hours. Not a night, they never stay over.

So I started being the college whore and I loved it. I liked being at a party where I knew If this new guy doesn’t come home with me, one of the others I’ve messed around with will make me feel important later. I never wanted to repeat a one night stand, but when we didn’t talk at all the first time, it had the passion and the feeling of a new first again. This would entertain me up until the day I left BGSU. After college I knew I needed to chill on the sleeping around because that’s not what you’re supposed to do. People started judging me even though I loved it so much. What did I turn to? Moving to new cities. Spent time in southwest Ohio, moved to New York City for a bit, found a home in Charlotte.. (by home I mean lived in an apartment for a year) and eventually settled in Cincinnati. Like I’ve shown, consistency is dull, but at least I wasn’t sleeping around anymore. Found my entertainment in new friends, finding a new coffee shop and exploring different places where I wouldn’t see those faces again. I felt wholesome and I felt wild in a new way. When I moved to Cincinnati, I loved where I lived and I didn’t see me moving for awhile. I was near family and I was living with my best friend, my grown up mind knew this was something I couldn’t give up. Dating hadn’t been working for me and moving seemed to stop so had to find something to keep my “adventurous” side stimulated. After a long 2 years I found myself kissing random boys again and moving it even more than before. I knew this wasn’t the answer but when I’ve tried to stop being a slut for a good, I felt myself getting extremely bored. It’s as simple as that.

I tried to investigate why I couldn’t stop sleeping around. According to Uber Dictionary, “Daddy issues is an informal phrase for the psychological challenges resulting from an absent or abnormal relationship with one’s father, often manifesting in a distrust of, or sexual desire for, men who act as father figures.” I learned what this meant after my 30th sex partner and it was instantly a Fleabag choking on air moment. I then found an article on why you should never date a women with these issues. I didn’t have a father figure in my life, or a man really. It was my mom, sister and I. Too be honest, my favorite feeling in the world is when any man any age looks at me like I was a prize. That is not what this story is about however it would help explain even more to me. I hit an age where I couldn’t keep changing locations and no one gave a shit who your new favorite band was (even though you’d always have one) so I inevitably went back to one of the few things that made me feel alive. I found my consistent newness need (I’m an island of paradoxes) by meeting new men. It was an adventure that made you feel worthy, felt good about yourself and 50% of the time it would feel decent. In my early 20s I was missing a void, I was decently good looking, loved new adventures and loved attention from men, sleeping around was ideal for me. It was the perfect mixture of new and firsts.

My encouraging roommate would ask me “are you excited for (insert any basic white guy name here) to come over?” and I would be! I’d shave, make my vagina smell like a flower it’s not supposed to smell like, think about how I’ll make my first move and I’d feel on top of the world knowing that this person was taking their time to see me. A new first kiss was the drive and has been for the last 6 years. The sex usually wasn’t even in my mind. I’d inevitably give in to letting them fuck me, because If a boy wanted to be naked with me, I should let them; It’s kind of them to offer. “How was the sex?” I’d get asked the next day and 90% of the time my response would be “eh”. It wasn’t until this last year, or maybe two (who knows with Covid) and about 40 one night stands to understand that I didn’t actually enjoy the sex of the one night stands. It was the firsts for me. I like a new man sitting next to me being nervous. It was the unfamiliar boy wanting to be with me for an hour of their time (usually less). It was the first touch he gave my leg while we’re trying to find something on Netflix to pass the 20 minutes before I’ll be on top of him. It was when a new face stares at my lips, while I’m trying to memorize their face, both too nervous to just lean in. It was ultimately the control I have over them and the way they crave me.

Not the actual sex though, I’m usually faking that. Guys aren’t the performers in sex, they’re there just move their bodies and make themselves cum. It’s the women that have to adjust or convince herself that it feels good.. that’s why so many women are gay. I like living in Cincinnati and I’m done with school. One night stands will be the way to fill the void while I know how to unless there’s a boy that sweeps me off my feet. After meeting too many of them, that chance is becoming pretty slim.

My head is always on a highway going 80MPH, all day every day. Switching lanes every few minutes thinking of something different to worry about. One second I am focused on, have I been a good friend recently? I don’t think I have, how can I become a better friend? And the next.. I have NOT been excelling in my career. You need to come up with a organized plan so you can succeed at your job.

This is how my mind always works and I’ve (somewhat) learned to live with that. I’d switch lanes so often that it was very easy for myself to switch into positive thoughts. With that being said, when I decide to like a boy, this stupid analogy is quite different. When there is new guy in my life, it’s like I’m on a one lane backroad foot on the gas. Nothing else matters and nothing can get in my way. He’s all I can think about. He consumes me and all I do is think about him and fake non-existent scenarios. Don’t you worry, I’m still thinking about stressful, anxiety-filled situations however there revolved around a man, who inevitably wont matter within the next month.

It’s fucking exhausting. If they don’t text back within 30 minutes, it’s panic. If they go out with friends, it’s “why didn’t they invite me out?” And the worst, most illogical one is if they ‘do anything’, I’ll assume they’re cheating. Negatives 24/7 and this is a huge reason why I don’t date. If I have a crush on a guy, I will panic until I ruin it myself. My only solution to this exhausting drive that I’ve put myself on is to get off on the first exit I pass. That way I can take a deep breath, have a shot of whiskey and get back on the multi-lane highway I’m used too.

If you’re thinking this is a place where you’re going to get answers about how to solve all these situations, you’ve come to the wrong read. However if you believe you’re crazy, keep on reading because as am I, I may actually have you beat.

You may be asking why even try to like a guy? If it’s this exhausting for you why even attempt? Well I’m human. I’m supposed to want to husband, the snot-nose kids and the golden retriever held in my white picket fence. If that’s not my end goal then I don’t have goals and something is wrong with me, at least that is what is assumed. 50% of the time I do actually want these goals, so I will jump onto the first one lane backroad I see praying that this is the one that I’ll stay on and learn as I drive. However the other 50% I’m thinking about how one-lane roads are irrational and not for me. I should be my only lane, no one else! One-lane roads don’t make since to me and they never have.

I’m 26 as I’m writing this, surrounded by peers older and much younger than me who have decided that the husband and kids scenario is 100% for them. When am I going to decided? I can’t be the chick who thinks one night stands are preferred, doesn’t want children and has 0 interest in relations with men for this month and then hope the guy a blew months ago hits me up to ask me on a real date the next month. Did that make sense to anyone? I can’t be that women because It doesn’t have any logic and its fucking exhausting. When will I decide which route I’m taking? Do I even need to decide?

One day you’re an innocent little flower who no one has touched or rubbed or shown their penis’s too.. and the next day, you’re used. That’s how the saying goes right? Learning I had already been experienced in giving sexual favors since the age of my beautiful niece Sidney, was something I didn’t want to learn. I didn’t want to think about it when I got out of the shower, I didn’t want it to effect every fucking step my family takes and I sure as hell didn’t want it to be a conversation I now have to have with the men I blow when they ask “why are you starting to panic?”. Who am I kidding, they never ask. I lucky didn’t remember my molestation until I was 15 years old. That means years and years of thinking I was the definition of “innocent”. Thinking I ruled the world, that I was my own women and that I was .. unfortunately the only word that came to my mind was, clean. Yeah I was called the classic “whore” in high school for simply talking to a boy or two. That’s how high school in a small town goes, you’re judged and ridiculed everyday until you finally graduate and then you’re judged and ridiculed in a more secretive, adult like fashion. Regardless, I knew in my teen mind that not one person has seen my vagina. Call me whatever you want because I know I am untouched and for some stupid god damn reason that meant the world to me.

It wasn’t until I was riding in the car with my mother back from taking my sister to college. 3 hour drive with 4 billboards makes a great time to fuck your daughters head up for life. I remember every world my mom said, every single time she coughed because she didn’t want me to notice her crying and every once of disgust I had for myself. I started off this memorable conversation by asking why did we all hate my step brother Dave so much. He had moved back in with us for a few years now at age 34 (we’ll get to that) and he never wanted to talk to me. Dave complained 24/7, made shitty comments to my mother and never picked up after himself. Granted he was an asshole but so was I. All these things and more made me want to smack the shit out of him but who knew I’d end up wanting to cut off his dick. My mom had made it clear (behind his back of course) that she hates Dave, but why did we all collectively hate him? She went on to ask me what I remember about Dave and how we grew up together.

I remember laughing a lot. Being excited that I had 3 new brothers in my life. My mom and dad divorced when I was young and all I had was my sister. She was great but no teen girl wants to hang around a 4 year old. I remember finally having 3 new family members that were wild, like me, who wanted to play outside 24/7 and who always included me. I was living the childhood dream right before my eyes and I knew that. I remember being really close with my brother Dave. He was so nice to me, let me win every time we played video games and always made me feel welcome. Dave would ask me to come into his room after a day of playing out in the pool with everyone and he wanted to “continue having fun.” I felt popular within my home. I felt wanted. Playing in Dave’s room was my favorite time because I was needed and I like being needed. That lasted a long time.

But I also remember a fancy women coming to our house. I remember my mom cleaned the house a lot that day and prepared snacks. I remember the glass of lemonade she had and wondering why she wasn’t touching it. She would ask me very odd questions. “What do you and Dave do together?” “Did Dave have you touch him ever?” “Did he touch you?” He did touch me, make me touch him, show me things.. but that was the game. I like games. Those games soon ended!

When my mom told me years later that this “fancy women” was a social worker and those games I loved so much was actually me being sexually abused, memories hit me harder than I would eventually hit Dave’s truck with a shovel. He would put me on his lap and tell me to ride, like I was on a horse and I remember it made me need to pee. I liked this game. Sometimes he’d even take off clothing so that it would be more natural. My mom played something similar however I was on her back, fully clothed and she’d have me hold on “like a horse”. That game was more fun and didn’t make me feel like I had to pee. Dave wanted to make me feel comfortable and would ask things like “how can we make things more fun?” I told him, “my mom has me hang onto something like I’m on a horse” so he had me hang on to his hands. So kind of him to oblige, right?

The worst part of finding out I had experienced this molestation wasn’t the panic attacks I was having, It wasn’t the heart palpitations every time someone touched my parts and it wasn’t even how much it makes me feel unworthy till this day. It was having to go home and live with the guy who had molested me. He was my step dads son, how could I kick him out? He has no where to go! .. At least that’s what I was told from my step dad. Before I go on, know that I have forgiven my family for this. We are all human just trying to do the best for everyone, every child.

I came home the night after I found out the news.. it took one “hey” from Dave for me to take a shovel out our garage and put dents into his truck. I screamed until my throat felt like it was bleeding. I sobbed until I felt like throwing up. I was mourning for something I didn’t know I had lost. Once you express your feelings you’re supposed to fell better, why didn’t I felt better? After letting out my anger, not only was I feeling disgusted about my body, feeling like a slut and feeling apart of a community I didn’t want to be apart of, but now my throat hurt and my eyes burned.

I’m now 26 now and I’d like to say this story is coming to an end but I unfortunately still deal with members of my “family” not believing that this happened to me. “If this really happened why did you live with him?” You tell me. I still deal with a random cousin of mine asking me questions I’ve answered multiple times before. “Wait, Dave did this to you? When?” I used to get shocked when someone in my family was flabbergasted when they find out Dave was my first sexual experience, unfortunately now I don’t get surprised. Now it just feels like they get a gossip story to hear while I have to talk about it and remember details to answer there questions. It’s just a some salt in all the multiple wounds that this man had put into me. It’s become an experience I’m numb too because for some reason it’s still everyone’s favorite topic of discussion.

I would be lying if I told you this was something easy to write. Something I’m stronger for and something I’ve become a bad ass “you can’t fuck with me” type of girl. But life isn’t a trending Instagram post and you’re not going to feel like the #survivor. Finding out that I was another girl who had experienced this type of pain devastated me and it was a club I didn’t want to be apart of; no one does.

There was a night where my ex (we’ll call him Brett) invited me to hang out with him and his male friends during the Superbowl. Super fun right? As an 18-year-old, senior in high school, dating a junior in college this DID sound amazing. I rushed over to the frat boy apartment, expecting a great Sunday filled with Budlight, pretending to give a shit about football and a fantastic Beyonce halftime show. I got all three of my wishes and was thoroughly happy, but when the guys decided to order a stripper at 9pm I figured it was time to leave.

After easily being convinced to stay (I was convinced to stay out late and drink more? Shocker) I chugged beer, anxiously picked at my split ends and I watched a girl get naked in a cliché college apartment. 

*I know you can picture the apartment now. You know, the one that consists of two couches that don’t remotely match, empty cans of draft beer that had been there for weeks and a poster of Kate Upton half naked? That one.  ….. Actually, it sounds a lot like where I lived in college too*

Regardless I was panicking. Hear me out, I wasn’t anxious because we were looking at a beautiful women’s perfectly sized breasts, I was anxious because I knew who I was dating.. and the person I was dating was not a very nice human.

To make an already long story short, there were 5 men, 1 stripper and one flat chested me. Brett was loving every second of this while the rest of the SINGLE men had collectively decided that this was an odd situation and didn’t engage. If I were a single man, I probably would’ve been a Brett but who am I to judge. It only took 30 minutes for Brett to go into his room with her essentially forgetting I was there. There isn’t anything worse than that knot in your throat, having to pretend everything is “chill” but begging yourself not to cry. One would’ve thought I had enough self-respect to get up and excuse myself for the night, but not my insecure ass. After around 5 minutes (what can I say, Brett didn’t tend to last long) of pure panic and listening to the lovely moans coming from his room, he came out with his mouth in a smile and his eyes on me.

Everyone left and Brett decided to tell me the details of their orgasms. “You can’t possibly be mad, we were all just having fun!” I wanted to be the “cool” girlfriend; I’ll drink a beer with your friends, watch sports and let you cum with other girls while I wait. Sounds like a dream I’m sure but frankly, if that’s what you’re wanting your dream girl to let you do, date your best friend. I felt completely empty. If I hadn’t felt ugly and useless before I had at this point and I was letting a guy who couldn’t find my clit dictate that. This is where the relationship was damaged for good but don’t worry, we dated for 2 years after.

Now I’m not the best girlfriend in the world, don’t worry I haven’t forgotten that. I will make you watch movies you don’t want to watch, I cry way too often, I will pout for an hour if you say the wrong thing and I won’t let you fuck other girls while you date me. I have extreme self-hatred issues and it fucking shows, (especially when I ask “do I look okay?” for a third time). The difference is because of that, I don’t date. I’m not the biggest saint in the world but no one deserves to be cheated on.

That night I was extremely weak, I still am weak..but that isn’t the point of this specific post, the point is that I missed him for a long LONG time. Why? Because nostalgia is a lying bitch. It’s like a bad cold; You may think it’s gone and you’ve finally gotten rid of it but suddenly, you’ll cough. Weeks after we broke up, my first real heartbreak, I found myself missing a man that I hadn’t even met. I thought about the 3 good days we had in our entire relationship and It made no sense. I completely forgot about this story and the numerous other horrible ones that made me feel like my skin was crawling. My heart would hurt when thinking about moments he made me feel good and all the cute romantic times we had. The absolutely adorable part about this (please note my sarcasm) was that there were none. I mean that’s why we decided to end it, right? 

Why do our heads do that? Make us believe something was a lot better than it was. Make us want to go back into time and relive situations that we clearly wanted to get out of. I find this damaging and I also find it to be the reason why couples tend to get back together after a 3rd break up. This is the type of nostalgia that says “it was better then” and it’s the type that makes you want to go back to somewhere with someone that wasn’t very nice. I’m writing this so I can read it again if I ever miss him, because it will happen. Brett was a bitch but this bitch named Nostalgia is the bigger bitch that tells me otherwise. I say nostalgia can go to hell because I know the respect I deserve and frankly, I should have at least have been invited to join Brett and the stripper.

I spend a lot of my time trying to make a fulfilling life. I want to do something I can look back on and think “I will always remember tonight.” The issue that comes with that is the pressure. I find myself overthinking if every night isn’t absolutely amazing or find myself overwhelmed with how much life there is to live. It’ll be 3am and I won’t want to sleep without doing one extra crazy thing, (alcohol can make that “crazy thing” pretty terrifying). I want to experience everything, see everything, live life the “correct” way and I want this so desperately bad. It turns out that I find myself doing nothing. 

Life terrifies me. I mean that in the since that there is so much pressure for it to be outstanding. I want to see the world yet instead of saving money I’ll buy a new top for Saturday night. I want to go to so many different concerts or see art I’ve never seen, but then I’ll run up a $70 tab at a dive bar. So much pressure for perfect life that I constantly feel like I’m doing it wrong. What is the “right” way to live your life? Is there a right way? If you’re happy with your life raising kids, going to work and looking forward to Friday, then you’re doing it right. If you love being alone, masterbating everynight and drinking red wine during Bravo marathons then I suppose you’re doing it right too. The issue is that I’m doing the latter, It just doesn’t feel like what I’m meant to do.

I spend my time going to work to earn money just so I can pay my bills to live. When I’m not working i have 4 hours to relax and then I’m doing it all over again. Life is all about experiences so why do I find myself not experiencing anything? I’m doing what I told myself I’d never do and settling. I can tell you one thing, I need to stop searching for these experiences at a run down bar with well whiskey.

I’m not sure what the underlying point of this is. Maybe this is as good as my life will get and that should be okay. I have lovely friends, a supportive family and I’m privileged to have a roof over my head with food in my belly. I just want a life to write about you know? Right now the only crazy things I can write about are the fucked up things that happened to me. I refuse for that to be my narrative.

I had a beautiful man ask to sleep over. I frankly wasn’t even going to allow him access, because I could hardly look him in the eyes, but I gave him the green light. Why? Because when a man who resembles Freddie Prince JR circa 2002 asks to see where you sleep, it takes an extra amount of energy to say “no”. Frankly, when it comes to sex I’m as weak as they come (no pun intended).

He complemented my bedroom layout choice while it was a mess and had the scent of dirty laundry and booze; I had been so used to the smell so it may not have. Luckily I was able to to have an extra 3 minutes and 34 seconds to throw the ‘put away’ pile of clothes into the closet so we at least had a walking path to the bed. Expecting no action (because the boy I actually liked was out of town,) my vagina was un-shaved and not “will you go down on me?” ready. Honestly and thankfully, I’m starting to forget what that definition is. I was in un-sexy underwear, sweatpants and repeatedly told him he didn’t have get me off; he made me cum twice.

The guy I really liked for half a year was due to come over the next day. None of my friend really liked him (red flag) and I couldn’t tell if he liked me(red flag), but I was taking a chance (red flag?). That morning, I cleaned all the corners of my room, purchased his favorite whiskey and exfoliated/shaved every inch of my body. It won’t come as a shock, but I managed to get my hopes up after begging myself not to.

Oh Mollie, how many last-minute let downs will it take for you to realize that you’re too optimistic? Probably an infinite amount of times. Like I say before kissing a boy that’s made my knees ache all night, the lead up is the best part. He texted me 20 minutes prior of his arrival and explained what personality traits of mine turned him off. These traits were why he would not be coming over that night or ever again. No matter how much effort I would put into this man, he wouldn’t like me.

It was this instance that made me learn a harsh truth. If someone wants you, none of the small shit will matter. Not the way your upper lip hides when you laugh, not the fact that you accidentally spit on his cheek when you were talking about where you went to undergrad, and it definitely wont matter if you have hair where hair is supposed to grow. If someone wants you it will be known. He’ll drive to see you, he’ll text you back, he may even text you first?!

Humans are beautiful, creative, they sometimes even come with a tremendous amount of depth, but in essence people are shitty and have the power to make you feel low. Find someone that actually wants you. It doesn’t matter how much you lather your skin in cocoa body butter, they’ll see you if they want to see you.. So let 2002 Freddie Prince JR make you cum if you want him too.