Oops I did it again

Sorry I’ve been a bit out of pocket lately, y’all. Here are some bullet points on what’s new/ a brief explanation of why I have been so absent.

  • I met a really, really great guy. (PS5) He is quirky, hilarious, terrifyingly great at kissing, and has been unbelievably patient and understanding about this current celibacy thing.
  • PS5 and I shared a Valentine’s Day date. I think it must have been my first in at least 4 years… We also shared an exceptional first kiss on this date as well as some laughs and fun.

  • We had 3 more dates after this, and he has continued to respect my celibacy. He also has been the most aligned mental match and hilarious suitor I have been near in years. (He will undoubtedly get a blog all of his own.) Then….

Image result for grief aphrodisiac

… One of my best friends suddenly passed away. So I broke my celibacy (again) by getting mercilessly and perfectly fucked by one of my (not even remotely compatible in the long term) college Latin tutors who I saw at the funeral.

This is what my therapist tells me is “regression to homeostasis.” Except my homeostasis is trysts with men who are good for the body but not the soul.

Reset the clock, I guess? For the next week or two, I am going to recenter on my “why,” and thus bring you up to speed on how I even got here in the first place. Buckle up, y’all.

Le sigh…


That Thing You Do

Dirty pleasure movies (in no particular order)

  • Shakespeare in Love
  • High Fidelity
  • That Thing You Do
  • Good Will Hunting
  • Space Jam

Are any of the above movies available for consumption somewhere that I am present? If so, I am watching it.

Outside of its iconic classiness and impeccable musical intersections, That Thing You Do always stands out to me for containing one of the best lines a man could ever possibly utter to a woman. “When’s the last time you were good and kissed?” (Note: Dionysus once asked me a similar-ish question but if memory serves me correctly, he also fucked me in a stairwell shortly thereafter, so like… the writing was really on the wall there. Anyway…)

In my time of being a full blown slut bag for a couple of years, the biggest thing that I missed was … just… kissing. Making out.   With or without agenda.


Think about it though! Think about the last time that you were good. and. kissed. There really is something gorgeous attached to that. And I had (have?) essentially eliminated it as a portion of my interactions with humans since I was last in a relationship. Which is ABSURD! Kissing is the best! It is one of my favorite hobbies, and IMHO one of my resume worthy skills. But it only sort of occurred incidentally since I stopped having sex with feelings. Even really good kisses were slightly cheapened because they were exclusively a mechanism to kill time in the broader sex process.

So when was it? When was the last time that I felt like I was good and kissed?

Enter John.


John is one of my best friends on the whole planet. He has seen me through my wonderful and less than stellar moments with most of the men who you will see mentioned here. In fact, he has had this weird ability to actually be very, very close friends with all of the men who have come and gone. He is just really… cool. Like the kind of dude that you could drop in literally any room or any conversation and he would figure out a way to connect with someone within it. Additionally he knows the absolute worst and most absurd parts of me, but he just so happens to somehow be willing to hang out anyway.  He is wildly clever and extremely interesting. He is incredible at his job (which just so happens to mean he is also great with kids), and he is just one of those rare gems of a human in my life. To make matters even worse, John and I are both just make out seeking missiles the second we consume alcohol.

Editor’s note: I know. I know what you are thinking, so let’s just go ahead and address it before we go any further down this trail. John and I 100% could never and should never be together. And that’s it. We’ve both always known that, and we have largely conducted ourselves accordingly. And before you ask, yes – OF COURSE I have thought about John as being more. No less than a hundred times and with increasing frequency as other men came and went and he stayed. But no matter how many times it has crossed my mind, I have known that it’s not even worth it to risk a conversation on the matter. Not to mention an actual attempt at something.  

John also just so happens to be a total fuck boy.  But he does it in this extra shitty way where I KNOW he does fuck boy things but is also the greatest man I have ever met.

Anyway – now for the kissing part…

Given the aforementioned fuck boy tendencies and our shared propensity for kissing literally everyone, at some point I realized that it was actually absurd that John and I never kissed. So in true Leah fashion, I began to bring it up ALL THE TIME. Like to the point of awkwardness. I would regularly reinforce that it was totally lame that we hadn’t kissed and feign hurt when he would ignore my staged advances.

Then one night we went to an event together for a local non-profit then went out for drinks and dancing after. (This is an important time to mention that John was also socially off limits because his best friend banged the brakes off of me for a little over a year and we formed a sort of Three Musketeers trio during this time. This is also another reminder that I really need to finish this glossary of suitors so you all can keep these men straight, eh? Ok. I promise I will soon.) As we were leaving the bar, our friend group was trickling out one-by-one to move on to the next location. I walked out of the bar into a hallway. I looked around to see where everyone was, and the only person who I saw was John standing on the other side of some glass doors that led to the parking garage where our cars were. I started walking towards him and as soon as the door opened, it was just very apparent what was happening…

So after months of half-jokes and ridiculous self-imposed boundaries. John and I kissed.

It was perfect. It was simple. It was one of the safest, loveliest kisses I have ever experienced. Then we just released each other as I stuttered my way through saying… something… I don’t honestly remember what… Our other friends joined us and we all just walked away.

A couple of months later, we would kiss again. Drunkenly. Hastily. And with much more touching. We were in the home of the third musketeer, and John had a girl visiting him from out of town. Said girl was very clearly jonesin’ for some John love, but he vehemently denied any interest in hooking up with her. At one point, his guest and the third musketeer went outside to play with / let out the dog. Again without conversation or really any previous indicators during the evening that something was going to happen, I found myself furiously kissing John. During this particular tryst he accomplished a feat which still mystifies me to this day in that he briefly fingered me while I was wearing a floor length formal dress. This kiss was completely different from the first. It was almost unsettled. It was intense, graciously limited on both the space it had to escalate or overthink, passionate, and once again – annoyingly perfect.

It stopped as quickly as it began (and PRAISE THE LORD) only seconds before the other two came back inside. We walked opposite directions…

John  went home and had sex with that girl. I woke up the next morning in bed with the Third Musketeer… But that’s the thing with John. He can somehow be the last man to kiss me well and also be the man who fucks another girl after that kiss. And that’s why he can also be the one man who holds my whole heart and soul in certain moments, but also not the man that I choose to kiss regularly. But luckily these moments remind me why I am celibate now in hopes of kissing a best friend/ passionate lover sometime again in the future. Apparently that’s the thing that breeds the best kisses? Meh. We shall see…

So that’s it. That’s the last time I was good and kissed. When was yours?

xx- Leah

p.s. John, if you use this as collateral to make out with other women, I will harm you physically.

Kermit meme

Me: 😬😍😬😍 he’s hilarious. He asked you out on an actual date in the smoothest, yet weirdest possible way. He knows you’re not going to have sex with him on said date, and conversation has INCREASED after that rather than the opposite. He has the cutest fucking curly hair……

Also me: 🐸 nah. Just like … go balls out in the awkward weirdness and just see…

🤷🏽‍♀️xx- Leah

Lieutenant PS -4.7

This PS (potential suitor) has earned himself a name rather than just a number designation. This is because he had muscles I did not know existed. Additionally I did exclusively call him “lieutenant” for the duration of our tryst. Partially because it so clearly inflated his ego, but more so because I was still trying on my newfound sexuality for size. So this felt boundary-pushing provocative.


Anyway … he is PS -4.97 because he happened so long ago, (ummm… kind of. half way…) and he truly was never meant to impact the broader story. The lieutenant was one of my first dates I had after my break up from Dionysus. I had begrudgingly gotten on tinder (correction: my best friend forced me to get on tinder, at which point we (my best friend and I) matched and started sleeping together the same night. But honestly this portion is relatively unrelated at this time, so let’s just push pause there.)

As many of you know, Tinder is most often a completely useless tool unless you want to just lose a little bit of hope in humanity overall. So my expectations were low when I first got to swiping. Enter: lieutenant. He looked a bit like Elvis Presley in his super hot years.  Not only that, but he was also a lieutenant scientist! I know.  So on one hand he would send me snap chats from work that looked like this scholarly gentleman, but then he would get naked and he looked like an actual mythological god of some kind. He legitimately even had a chest tattoo like this.original


We went on one date. I promptly realized he was undoubtedly the worst, so I told him this and asked him if he was at least a good kisser. Now is probably an important time to disclose that we were sitting on a vibrating chair at the time, so my wits weren’t completely about me in the moment. (Long story, but please click that link for a better idea of my circumstance.) Anyway, he just so happened to be an excellent kisser, and I was 2 extra dirty vodka martinis in. So I said (likely sort of shakily), “I am going to fuck you tonight.” To which he replied, “Ok, I will text you my address.”  He paid for drinks, and I begrudgingly left the chair. Upon arrival at his house, we began your usual process of undressing each other while kissing when suddenly I realized that I was feeling a variety of muscles which I previously did not know existed. “WHAT?! AM I BEING PUNK’D?! Oh my god, lieutenant… this can’t be your actual body?!?!?!?!,” I proclaimed like the totally normal and composed person that I am.

We had sex a few more times after that first night. Each time I would text my girlfriends incredulously afterwards with photos and stories of how this man gave me access to his completely unnatural hotness. At one point I remember drunkenly requesting outright that he be my sex slave. I honestly don’t remember much about him other than that. He kind of was just this wonderful spring board from monogamy to my future recklessness.



About 5 or 6 months ago, I was leaving a party where I saw a few exes, and I had scrolled ALL THE WAY THROUGH my “U up” Rolodex as my totally healthy visceral reply to suppressing any feelings about said sightings. A couple of burned bridges, one non-reply, and finally I dialed the number I hated even scrolling to…

He answered the phone sleepily… “Hello? Wait. Leah?”

(Yeah. I CALLED him. This is the extent to which I was not fucking around here. I want to be ashamed of this, but frankly, I am not.) “Yes. Hey, Lieutenant. Listen. I am honestly  furious that I am even calling you, but you are obviously in bed and not doing anything. So I am coming over and you are fucking me.”

“Uuuuuhhh… yeah… ok….? uuuuhhh…….”

“Text me your address!” I all but screamed, then hung up.

Still not satisfied that I had let him know the extent to which I was disgusted at my own regression to his rock hard scapuspinoabdominal muscles or whatever, I stormed into his house, began removing my clothes, looked him dead in the eyes, and said “I have to pee. But if you don’t make me cum at least twice after that, I never want to speak to you again.”

(He didn’t)

Either way this was a non-event, and I had continued my prowl for more suitable partners in the meantime. A few weeks ago we began a rather silly series of message exchanges until last week, he sent this.


… And that’s when the universe yet again chuckled as it reminded me to stop texting dudes I never even gave a shit about in the first place when I am trying to learn to give a shit about things again. #celibacy

Le sigh… xx-Leah

“This Is Us” (and why my feels impede my ability to love)


(Spoiler Alert? Except honestly not really. If you have seen any of the previews for this show, then you know these things. So whatever.)

So here’s the bullshit thing about last night’s episode of This Is Us. The plot is intrinsically and specifically designed so that viewers will find themselves caught up in *A* character. But guess what, bitches?! I feel them all. I am somehow Randall, Kate, Mandy Moore, AND what ever the fuck his name.

… Let me start this over …

Last night’s TIU was brokered for weeks as the most devastating thing that could ever happen to you as your life will intersect with any fictional character ever. And frankly, they delivered.  The premise of this particular episode was that we would 1) learn how the hottest dad of all time died and 2) observe how each relative mourns his death on its anniversary. So I watched it at 2:45 am, sobbed violently, then immediately took a xanax as I realized that I see my grief process and my apprehension to love again in all of them.

This Is Us - Season 2

Randall: celebrates and tries to pass extravagant love onto his family. He has flashbacks of sadness, but mostly he remembers that his dad was a super cool dude who deserved to be celebrated more than mourned.

Leah: During his lifetime, my dad was a musician, psychiatric nurse, chef, and alcoholic. I honor this by constantly hosting people with a wide array of food and drinks, getting super fucked up at music festivals and kissing strangers, and being sure that anyone who is truly in my heart knows that I care for them deeply.


Kate: Basically Kate emotionally cuts every year by watching the final memory she has of her father over and over. More broadly, she pushes away love, but oh-how-lovely, she finds it again dancing in her living room with her

Leah: Honestly just same. Except I am still waiting for my dance partner (sad tuba)

This is Us - Season 2For the record, I typed my first draft of this after imbibing a bit. (Cause Super Bowl) For the life of me, I could not remember Kevin’s name. So because I find that to be hilarious enough to continue, I shall do exactly that. 

What’s his name: Every year for approximately 19 years, this dude just runs from his feelings via sex and alcohol. In the situation that he gets close to people, he usually screws it up pretty royally. Oh yeah, and then after 2 decades he is finally  ready to admit that he has no fucking idea what he is doing/ that he may just be doing it all wrong.

Leah: Not like same-same, but not suuuper different


Mandy Moore: Well she warned us. But also her character cooks away her pain then waits for the universe to bring her a message from her dead husband that makes her laugh.

Leah: See Kate

So why am I even dedicating this space to this particular corner of the television world. What does this have to do with me being temporarily celibate? Well… because…

— When I think about loving again, I am completely petrified. — Like actively working on overcoming the paralytic fear because it has turned me into someone who I don’t even recognize sometimes. It has turned me into a girl who would maybe rather have non-feels sex / never love again than to ever risk baring these aspects of me to someone new.

Because in order to have those moments when someone can look into your eyes and know the worst but love you all the same… they have to understand all of those parts of me. And that’s a lot to impose on someone. It’s also a lot to offer up time and time again to then only be brushed aside. The last man I slept with who also knew some of the depths of my personal grief (and who’s pseudonym I am still toying with, though I’m leaning towards Fabio mainly because I think he would really really hate it) said he would always choose me and love me. He sat with me for hours ASKING me to share the dark parts of me. Then he started banging one of my friends, and we don’t really talk anymore so…

“This is intimacy: the trading of stories in the dark.”
― Elizabeth Gilbert, Committed: A Skeptic Makes Peace with Marriage

In addition to all of this, I unfortunately have experienced the loss of a parent. A father, specifically.

And do you wanna know what fucked me up for the longest time? My dad passed away in 2007. Believe it or not, this was before the age of mass photographing every single life moment. So every once in awhile, I would throw some photographs in the cards I sent him so he could see what was happening in my college life that brought him immense pride. And in the last set of photos I ever sent him was a picture of the guy I ended up marrying from a “law prom” event we attended in college.


I couldn’t reconcile it. How could I not make things work with the last guy who my dad saw me with? I had to. It was the last tie I ever had to his tangible approval…

… But we broke it …


So let’s be clear here. The idea of intimacy — The idea that someone could know me deeply again. — The idea that an investment doesn’t necessarily mean a lifetime. — That sounds completely terrifying .


My therapist seems to think I am fixable in this arena, but I think he has to say that so I don’t become a suicide risk or some shit. Either way, this is why I am journeying back through the hard stuff .


So you could say I’m a little apprehensive to mix the love and the sex ever again… Thus … This Is *Us.

*celibate bloggers just trying to function in the face of love

(more to come soon – including how a guy from tinder recently practically proposed but then told me he “didn’t think we had the same things in mind” when I  refused to send him a picture of my bum hole. True story.)… xx-Leah

Fail: Take 1

… and then I broke my celibacy… well – kind of. Whatever. I titled this “Take 1,” because I am hyper aware of my uniquely strong propensity towards fuck ups. So….

Honestly you know that feeling when you can’t quite get a GOOD breath? And you keep inhaling and inhaling… and somehow it just doesn’t feel like it gets the job done… until! You *finally* get that one inhalation that makes you feel like you can really. just. breathe? That’s how I feel when I’m not having sex. And the breath just doesn’t fully… {should I do it? Of course I am going to} …doesn’t fully cum until I do… And it’s been 43 days. FORTY THREE DAYS. Le sigh.

Photo Mar 23, 6 44 45 PMI know that I haven’t fully unpacked the why and how of my path to this particular journey of celibacy. And I do plan to do so much more for you soon. But if I were to boil down the nuclear source of how my fucked-up-ness led me to a therapist’s office on a random Tuesday when I had to answer the question “So what brings you in today?” with “I need to learn how to love again…,” it would be my 3 year relationship with that tall drink of water next to me here. ^^^^^ And here is why:

  • While men who came before AND after him did pleeennntttyyy of damage, Dionysus* (D for short) unleashed my Khaleesi. 
  • D taught me to use sex as a coping mechanism / stress outlet.
  • D was 6’4, impossibly handsome, and a total fucking textbook narcissist at best and sociopath at worse.

The reason for this context is that D… {the 4th man I had ever slept with – FOURTH}… was available as a stress fuck for almost 3 years. So after breaking up, I had to learn how to COPE. And in one of those iterations of coping skills practice, I realized that I could still use sex as a stress reliever/ emotion suppressant if I just asked men to be such. (Spoiler alert: I am celibate now, so this method currently has a 0% proven long term effectiveness rate.)

So here I am. And it’s getting harder and harder to breathe.  So I caved. I caved for no reason other than I felt like it. But in defense of me, my mind is not right as a general rule, and I was deep in it. “It” being the barren waist-lands of celibacy mixed with a series of extremely hard days in a row. It was so bad that I recently dreamed about the only girl I ever dated. But as proof that therapy is working, I didn’t text her after waking up from said dream. I just kept that repressed along with the repression of any thing that feels like sustained failure personally, professionally, and/or psychologically. Then I texted one of my old faithfuls.

I should have known. He wanted to have conversation tonight. He told me he was waiting for his Tylenol to kick in, but he didn’t tell me that until we were already in bed. So then there we are. Laying in bed — talking. Watching random funny videos. All of these things are off limits with the old faithfuls. He knows this. The rules for OFs are 1) do not fall in love, 2) no cuddling, no pillow talk, 3) I am not your emergency contact under any circumstance, 4) no cunnilingus, 5) no spending the night.


We start hooking up. I will spare you the details for this particular OF, but he is doing just fine. Then —

something just —


“I have to pee!” I blurted out as I found my shorts and did that awkward scoot to the bathroom where you cup your boobs as if he wasn’t just literally laying on them. So I do. I pee. I take some deep breaths. I swish and spit some water. Then I exhale and open the bathroom door to walk back into his room. I don’t even fully round the corner before he says it.


Him: What if…

Me (internally): no no no no please don’t please don’t. please please please. no no no

Him: … what if I told you that I loved you?

Me (internally): NOOOOOOO Embed from Getty Images

So I did what any obviously rational, well-medicated, half-naked, totally fine woman does when a man whose few instructions  included a very clear request to not fall in love says that he loves you.


I put my panties back on, started the humiliating search for my bra while still cupping my boobs even as I bent over, and I said something along the lines of, “Thinking that you love me is just illogical. You know nothing about me. I arrive as a drunken sexual phoenix every couple of days then disappear. You don’t know my middle name. You have no idea what my quirks are if they are not connected to my naked body. You love the half girl. You love the part of girl that every man loves. Not me.” Or I may have stuttered through an apology and sprinted out his garage in the dark. Methinks it was most likely something about half way between the two…

Ok. So reset the clock. I guess? Just breathe… xx-Leah


*Reminder. These are pseudonyms. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. Or yeah- maybe you know him or ARE him, and this is the blog you’ve always feared? Whatever.