**Editors' Note: Today's guest post comes in from an OR gal who recently moved from the great state of California.**
I've said it and written it many times before, and as long as I live in this strange town I will continue on with my ravings. I said it to K____, in the days when we would speak to people who would say "I've got to go," and then walk a scant 10 feet away from us. I thought about it late at night, while my hair pomade soiled my martini-print pillow case. And I marveled at it as I wrote drunken slogans across a filthy 18-year old junkie's back before falling under the the wily and unholy sway of Carlo Rossi "Pisano" wine. I most certainly thought angry thoughts as visions of bygone days at Modesto Junior College passed through my dreams.
Oh, MJC, the veritable petri dish of libidinous youth from the greater Central Valley. I sing a song of MJC, my Alma Mater, to the Pirates, and with passion to the men, who seemed to outnumber women 10 to 1. The odds are against the males of MJC, and they know the score. Perhaps it is the methane and pollution in the brown air, maybe it is the never ending roar of highway 99 sounding like an ocean in the distance, a primordial sea of hot pavement and speed, the California highway that can take you Anywhere. Maybe it was the pervading stagnation of Suburban Hell and Boredom, the knowledge of the fact that there are 12 million tiny rooms painted white, 17 billion little rooms that swelter with suffocating humidity in the summer and make you realize that the entire state is like a fishbowl turned over. No air. No space. Just heat, and people, and endless rows of houses, beyond that, the country that leads to more country, to weird lakes, to the foothills, and farther off, the ocean. Always the Road and the Ocean.
What else was there to do but to fuck?
They would accost me at any time. They would stalk, and call, and wait. They were patient. They knew what they wanted. I had the luxury to say "No," and I uttered it often. Even so, I never went without for very long.
But here, there is no sex. There are too many women. It is a bachelor's paradise, the men are in charge, and oh, there are many blond ski bunnies to go around. Many nubile girls, beautiful girls, so many of them you could drown in a sea of tank tops and hair product. There are swarms of girls, they line the streets in summer. How I hate them! What's worse, how badly do I hate couples! I've a theory that every bedreadlocked dirty hippie sonofabitch was born with a girlfriend and a dog. I hate teenage couples. I hate people who go to bars and have sex and write about it on the internet. I hate how getting laid is a special thing around here. I hate thinking of all the lucky people out there, fucking, while I get none. Even working for it doesn't work. Even dating doesn't work.
I'm cursed. That is the only answer.
Fate has laid down the law. Fortuna deemed it can only take place between me and someone who has once lived in the Outside: Nevada Nevada California. I have never tasted the sweet nectar of Oregon, nor will I ever, most likely, and that is fine, for lack thereof has only embittered me, and even if the opportunity came, if Oregon offered me one of her Native Sons, I would yell "NO! None of your vile flesh! I will have none of it!" Oregon--you have done me wrong! You know I would do most anything for sex! I would ride for 24 hours on a rotten Amtrak carriage for it! I would seduce a CART BOY for a chance. What is it with you, Oregon? You have turned me into a dried up crone. You have stolen my youth and the best of my fruits! My lube has evaporated in the dry mountain air, my paintbox of Erotic Chocolate has spoiled, and my whips no longer sting--they only titillate my cat, now. What foul relegation! I could have given you orgies, masterpieces of BDSM, a really good time, but no! Do you know how unfortunate it is to wear a garter for practical reasons? I throw up my hands in anguish.
I have officially given up on Sex in Oregon.