September 11, 2011

9/11 on 9/11

Today is 9//11. I try to stay away from writing about topics that are globally tragic. I much prefer writing about topics that are personally tragic. However, I was born and raised in NYC, and given that this is the ten year anniversary, I have decided to talk about my experience.  

September 11, 2001

It was my second year of graduate school. I was living at home with my parents and my sister in Queens. I  had a habit of leaving the television on mute while I slept. I was having bad dreams and the television helped. When I woke up a movie was playing. There was an explosion, I didn’t pay much attention. I grabbed my cell phone and called a friend. He picked up and said he was fine. 

“Fine?” I asked. 

“Aren’t you calling to see if I’m ok?” Silence. “Haven’t you seen the news?” More silence. “Someone flew a plane into the Twin Towers.” 

I turned towards the television. I don’t remember thinking anything. I just remember the moment when I realized that I was watching the news not a movie. A minute or two passed and the second tower fell.  I hung up. I frantically dialed numbers; my mother, my sister, my father, my friends, anyone I knew who would be in the city. All safe. Thank God.

I watched the news for two or three hours. I turned it off. It was too much. I was just there a few days ago. I don’t remember who called who, but I was on the phone with my friend, Maye.  We decided that we both needed to get out of the house.

Maye and I met freshman year of college. We were introduced through a mutual friend. She was shy, but I won her over and we became good friends. She was born in China, but is defiantly a New Yorker. I still consider her one of my dearest friends. 

We decided to go to the movies, get our minds off of everything. When we tried to buy tickets, we received a verbal lashing from the guy in the ticket booth. How could we go to a movie at a time like this? He told us that his muslim friends had been beaten up and was in the hospital. 

Maye and I looked at each other. I told him that I felt bad for his friend but we couldn’t sit and watch the news all day, it was too upsetting. Besides, the trains weren’t running, we couldn’t even go to help.  

At this point the manager showed up and gave the guy a stern look. Then we got our tickets. I don’t remember what we watched. 

When I got back home, I found a scrap of paper in my pocket with a name and number, Will. Will worked in one of the towers. I met him at The World Trade Center a few days prior. We were supposed to go on a date. I called his number. Voicemail. I left a message.

The following days were quiet. Will called me back. He was on the ground floor getting a cup of coffee when the plane hit. He said that he ran into the subway, and followed a crowd into one of the cars. He said that the dust was so thick he could hardly see, let alone breath. 

A week later we went out on our date. He spoke about his experience on 9/11. He said that every time he heard a loud noise his heart pounded in his chest. I was sympathetic to his trauma, but the tone in his voice made me think he was trying to get into my pants.  My thoughts were confirmed. While driving me home he stopped the car, and pulled out his erect penis. 

I just looked at him. I contemplated smacking him, but as I said, I was sympathetic. Being a survivor can make you do things that you normally wouldn’t. I got out of the car. I could hear him as I shut the door. “Come on, just touch it. We would be so good together.” I walk home. It was only a few blocks. 

We went out twice after that, but I couldn’t forgive his penis display. That was that. 

The following months were tough. I was saddened about the lives lost. At the same time, I’d never seen so many people come together to help one another.  No riots, or looting, us New Yorkers were sticking together. That’s why we’re awesome. 

I’m trying to think of something uplifting to end with. Something that makes you think of puppies and rainbows, but I’m just not that kind of person. Besides, puppies and rainbows seem a little inappropriate, even for me.  

September 10, 2011


I was never big on blowjobs. Just not my thing. Throughout college I had a strict no blowjob policy. I never wanted to have some immature asshole go around bragging that I sucked his dick. 

Fuck that!

However, as I got older, I sucked it up, so to speak.  My no blowjob policy became lax. Although, I always opted for the Happy Ending instead.

David, my boyfriend, it turned out, was a fan of the Happy Ending. Well, at least in the traditional sense of getting a handjob from a “masseuse.” 

A year after David and I started dating, opportunity knocked. 

I had just graduated with my M.A. in psychology, and I needed a thinking break. At the time, I was working in a research lab and all the locked doors, windowless rooms, and constant silence was driving me crazy. I resigned. 

I needed a job. A mindless job.

Apparently, I have a knack for finding the sketchiest of Craigslist ads. First the foot fetish gig then this: Massage Therapy (no experience required. Will train). 

“Oh, I know what that means.”  David said with a nod. 

I was apparently twenty-stupid and in my naivety, I disagreed. 

Now, I don’t know if David devised his plan at that moment, or this was some dirty fantasy lingering in his mind. 

“Let me try it out,” he said, “If you’re right, you can go to the interview.” 

“And if I’m wrong, you get a handjob?”

I honestly didn’t think he had the balls. 

David, I thought, was a pussy. So when he stated that he was going to call the ad, I honestly didn’t believe him. I should have noticed he was serious when he sweetened the pot.

He said that if he was wrong, he would give me a hundred bucks. On the flipped side, if he was right, I would give him a hundred bucks. I reiterated that if he was right, he was getting a FUCKING HANDJOB. The only rule was that there was to be no other sexual contact, especially kissing. I didn’t want to catch anything from some prostitute masquerading as a masseuse. And if he got arrested, don’t call me.

The night came (no pun intend), I went the gym, went home, and waited for the verdict. It was in the early evening when David called. And… Happy Ending achieved. Oh, Fuck!

I tried my best not to get angry. After all, I agreed to this mess. I congratulated him on his handjob and asked him to tell me the details. As he got to the end of his recap, he began to mumble. A sure sign he was hiding something.

“You better not have fucked that whore!” I said violently. 

He assured me that he didn’t. I tried to calm down and coax it out of him.  He insisted that I promise not to get mad before he told me. Jut saying that made me mad, but I promised.

“We kissed.” He said.

I kinda lost it then. I called him the nastiest names I could think of, told him it was over, and hung up. He called me back a few times before I picked it up. We talked and I decided not to break up with him. I just let him know he wasn’t getting anything from me for a long, long time. 

A few months later David was going on a business trip. He asked me if he could visit a “massage parlor.” We had discussed our experiment at length and had become desensitized to the idea. 

I made a deal with him, he could get his Happy Ending, but I had two conditions. First, I was not going to give him a blowjob or handjob as long as he continued visiting whores. Second, if I went out to a night club I would be allowed to kiss someone for every blowjob he got. After a serious discussion, we had a deal.  

We stood on a slippery slope.