The End of Shame, Part 2 - Sex on the First Date

Sex on the first date gets a bad rap. There's this popular notion that it somehow cheapens the relationship that follows, that, in fact, no very good relationship can evolve from such an impulsive act of intimacy. I've even heard the claim (from various people and on different occasions) that one should wait until third 3rd date to consummate. Or maybe I just know a lot of square people. In any case, I just want to say that I think this taboo is based on a very dumb and illogical assumption- that mutual sexual pleasure is not the most important component of a healthy relationship. Now, I grant that sexual compatibility alone does not make a great match. But the sting that comes from discovering you have nothing in common with your mate beside your desire to get it on doesn't suck as much as the dull ache of sexual incompatibility, especially when he or she had seemed to be your perfect soul mate on those chaste dates 1 and 2. In such a case, chaste dates waste time.

I'm not saying that people should always have sex on the first date - I mean, certainly not if it’s a bad date or even if you like the person but you just don't feel comfortable. I just think it’s silly for two eager and willing people to hold off on the deed just because of some retarded convention. Yeah, there's the risk of making yourself more vulnerable to heartache, like when you really like the person that you're sleeping with, but that person is only interested in sex. I've been in that situation and it was a little bitter and painful in the end. But I don't have any regrets. It was fun while it lasted and I definitely don't think that the situation would have been much different if I had waited longer to have sex. It wouldn't have made that person more interested in a real relationship.

On the other hand, imagine the convenience of discovering that your favorite bedmate is also the person you want to marry! It can happen. Ultimately, I suppose that my marriage will best test my belief that sex on the first date can be the foundation of a very strong bond. Not only did Dan and I have sex within hours of our initial dinner plan, we spent most of the following four days together. We agreed to meet on a Thursday evening for sushi and stayed up until the wee hours in my apartment. I called in sick to work on Friday and we spent most of that day lying in bed, naked, either having sex or watching Beavis and Butthead dvds, with occasional breaks for food. On Saturday morning, Dan drove back to Detroit where I met him that evening for an outdoor concert, after which we went back to his apartment and had more sex until his weird roommate got home. Then we went to Union Street and split the fish and chips and laughed hysterically at each other's jokes. The waiter gave us free pie, which put us in an even better mood. Even better than that, we found that the weird roommate had left the apartment again, so we took advantage of our privacy. Dan's friend Jorge (pronounced "George") from Georgia randomly drove into town at 6am on Sunday morning, which interrupted our activity, but that was okay. We all got breakfast and then Dan dropped me off in Ann Arbor and we were separated again, but only until he picked me up on Monday afternoon. Then we went to another outdoor concert and later had more sex. But before that latter part, we met up with my old friend Meredith, who was very impressed by Dan and assumed that we had been dating for months. It was actually our 3rd date, but then so much had happened. Between Thursday and Tuesday, Dan and I had essentially decided that I would move into his Detroit apartment at the end of the summer, when the weird roommate was expected to leave for good. We also decided that we would eventually get married.

Well, the weird roommate did leave and I moved in as planned. The rest is blog history. Most of my peers thought at the time (and maybe still believe now) that those actions were insane, or at least highly irrational. I don’t regret the outcome and furthermore, I contend that, aside from our wedding weekend, those first few days were the most fun I've ever had in my life. And even if our life together hasn’t always been easy, I’ve never felt disillusioned or unhappy about the big choices we made. All told, I guess that sex on the first date is a pretty mild impulse compared to all of the other decisions I made about Dan. That’s just another reason why I find this “no sex” rule so arbitrary and inane.

The End of Shame, Part 1 - Body Fat

A friend of mine recently observed, "I love bellies... I love bellies except my own". I think the saddest part of this statement is how well I relate to it. I do love bellies. I love Buddha's belly. I love the shape of that faceless guy from The Big Lebowski opening credit montage - you know him only from the profile of his enormous gut, which he wags victoriously after bowling a strike. My favorite Detroit tummy belongs to Tigers' third base coach Gene Lamont. His pot o' plenty is like a joyous beacon, congratulating a lucky slugger as he makes his way home.

All these big bellies always make me smile. So why do I feel so sad when I glance down upon my abundant abdomen?

It's funny that I've only mentioned men's tubby stomachs, but maybe that's because it's so rare for a woman to display her paunch as prominently. It's tough for us thick ladies to pass as attractive in this society, but I don't think it's much easier for guys to feel good about their girth. I also have to acknowledge that this issue seems far less troublesome to black people, who tend to wear their weight with a lot more pride. Ultimately, I think that self-respect is the key to becoming comely. I generally find miserable people unattractive, so if someone is ashamed of their shape, it follows that they won't look pretty to the rest of us. On the flip side, a happy and confident fatty can be quite dashing. Take it from me - I'm fatter than I've ever been and since I got married a month ago, I've been catching more admiring glances than in the whole rest of my life put together!

So, in the spirit of taking pride in my lipids, I have started referring to my body fat as ranch dressing. Now, as much as I love the taste of ranch dressing, it isn't my favorite form of fat. Cheese is, by far, the winner, but when I think of cheese in the context of a woman's body, I think of a yeast infection. That's not very sexy. Rather, I think that ranch dressing is the most feminine of fats. For one thing, we women love to eat it. Even the most health-conscious, Diet Coke-drinking, only-salad-for-lunch ladies among us eat ranch dressing, though they may always ask for it on the side. Ranch dressing is also quite pretty, with it's thick, buttermilky texture and cheerful flecks of green herbs and black pepper. I also like that it is fluid, that it doesn't coagulate like once-warm butter. I guess I like to think that my body fat is similarly fluid, that I can lose some and gain some, that I can squeeze in my jeans or (if I should ever be so adventurous!) up into a girdle. But mostly, I get excited when I imagine these rolls on my stomach as little sacs of ranchy goodness, because it makes my mouth water, just thinking about that exquisite, tangy flavor.

If I were a sculptor, I would make a ceramic figure on the scale of my twenty-two year old body, from when I was so skinny and frail. Then I would wrap it's belly and thighs and ass with clear glass to make it look like the shape of my thirty-one year old body and I would fill those glass voids with - you guessed it - ranch dressing. Then I'd place my awesome dressing decanter on the dinner table with a huge batch of extra greasy, double deep-fried potatoes and invite all my friends to eat. They could bring their own edible body fat self portraits, too. It would be our potluck celebration of our potbellies, and our true selves.