True Confessions of a Sex Ninja by Tawni Waters

What is a sex ninja, you ask?  True confession number one: I don’t know.  I just know that I somehow ended up with this moniker during grad school.  True confession number two: I lie awake at night wondering how the only person in my entire program who didn’t get jiggy wid any other member of the program ended up sporting this lofty title.  It’s like a botanist getting called into the ring to accept the Heavyweight Championship of the World belt.  I mean, yeah.  I’ll take it.  But I’m not sure my puny little arms can even lift it off the ground.

            I like to think I got this title because I ooze sexy (as opposed to say, oozing slutty, which sounds disgusting now that I type it out like that).  But I kinda think I might ooze slutty.  Maybe it’s my penchant for low cut blouses. I don’t know. I need to make something clear though.  I’m not really a whore.  I just dress like one.  Because it’s fun.  Because I have a pair of boobs, dudes, and I want to tart them up in black, lacy things.  And let’s be real.  Who hasn’t wanted to sport a pair of thigh high boots?  With fishnet stockings?  I’m living the dream.

I have this acute awareness of my inevitable demise, and as a result, implement a “suck the gusto out of life” philosophy whenever possible. It seems to me that when my boobs are old and saggy, I will be sad if I didn’t prop those puppies up with a trampy looking push-up bra when I had the chance.  Most girls have these urges.  Most girls get these urges out on Halloween.  For this girl, every day is Halloween.  I go to my closet each morning and say, “Do I want to be a sexy nurse or a slutty fairy today?”  (Author’s Note: I don’t actually own a stethoscope.)

Which brings me to sex.  In a round about way.  Via stethoscope.  I am a huge fan of sex.  I am such a fan that I hold sex in reverential awe, and I simply refuse to have it with any old Tom, Dick, or Harry I meet in a bar.  (Which brings me to hairy dicks.  Not really.  But it was funny.)  I tried casual sex when I was younger.  Much younger.  It sucked.  And not in a “suck the gusto out of life” kind of way.  In a, “wow, I feel cheap and used and tawdry, and this guy stinks, and what the hell happened to his left butt cheek, is that a bullet wound,” kind of way.  The older I get, the less inclined I am to have cheap sex with anyone.

I was at a bar the other day.  A very attractive, if beady-eyed, twenty-something bouncer followed me to my car and kissed me there.  I kissed him back for all of two seconds, after which I said, “This is weird,” and climbed into my car.  He stood at the window, practically pressing his nose against the glass, his beady little bouncer eyes pleading with me.  “Do me, old, cheap-looking lady,” they begged.  “No,” my eyes said back.  And I drove away.

I already knew where the night was going.  I didn’t need to wonder about the bullet wound in his left butt cheek.  I’ve been there, done that, got the T-shirt (the neckline of which I altered to show more cleavage).  I gave him my number before he kissed me.  He called me for days.  I never answered.  I am just not on the market for a beady-eyed, twenty-something bouncer.  Even if I am 41.  Even if I should be wildly flattered that twenty-something bouncers still want to show me their bullet wounds.  (No, that isn’t a double entendre.  Don’t think about it too much.)

It’s weird being a sex ninja.  People confess their sex fantasies to me.  Sometimes, I’d rather not know.  (“No, Gramma!  No!”)  Once, I was lying naked on my massage therapist’s table.  He decided it was a good time to tell me he’d been having fantasies about me.  It was a distinctly uncomfortable moment.  I wrapped the sheet around myself and told him I needed him to leave so I could get dressed.  He said, “I didn’t think you’d be this way,” in a wounded puppy tone of voice.  I wanted to twist the sheet into a noose and strangle him with it.  “Why? Why did you not think I’d be this way?  What in the world gave you the idea that if you confessed your sexual fantasies to me, I would do you on the massage table?” I should have asked him.  Maybe it would have cleared up the whole “sex ninja” thing.

Maybe it’s not just the way I dress.  Maybe it’s the way I act.  People tell me I flirt.  I do.  I admit it.  I’m insanely good at it.  As long as I don’t want to jump your bones.  But you want to know how a boy can know for sure I dig him?  I mean dig him in a “show me your bullet wound” kind of way?  I won’t flirt with him.  I will:

  1. ignore him.
  2. drink ridiculous quantities of alcohol in order to work up the courage to flirt with him, after which I will:
  1.  pass out in the trough of vodka on the table in front of me.
  2.  throw up on him.
  3.  declare myself the Satan of Tequila.  (For the full story on this humiliating moment, see my “Satan of Tequila” piece recently published on this press.)

If you know me, you’re thinking, “You flirt with everyone, Tawni.”  And that’s my point.  I flirt with everyone except the boys I like.  And these boys are very few and far between.  I wish it wasn’t so.  I have established entire relationships on the premise that since I’m only attracted to Jesus, Walt Whitman, and James Dean (or, in some of my more tawdry fantasies, a James Dean/Elvis hybrid), I might as well try to make a life with some guy I’m not attracted to. (Bad idea, girls.  Just don’t.)  But it’s hard being me.  All my A-list men are unavailable.  They are all distinctly dead.  And one of them is also gay.  So why not date the psychotic homeless guy on the corner?  (Did I mention I’m a black and white kind of girl?  Either/or.  You either date the James Dean/Elvis hybrid, or you date the homeless guy.  There is no middle ground.  But I digress.)

Ok, I might be dezaggerating (the opposite of exaggerating) the number of men I’m attracted to, but really, it’s a very small pool I’m drawing my potential lovers from, now that I have made the very mature decision not to sleep with boys that repulse me.  It takes this rare combination of sexiness, spirituality, above average intelligence, and artistic genius to make me want someone. (Oh, and it doesn’t hurt if he has mastered a musical instrument, memorizes poetry for fun, and has deep, soulful eyes.)  I’m not looking for a boyfriend so much as I’m looking for a messiah.  Which sets the bar kind of high.

So, this is how I judge a man who is hitting on me.  First, he’s gotta be the right kind of sexy.  Accidentally sexy.  Good looking, but not TOO good looking.  Like, by all means, be hot, but don’t look like you spend four hours a day in the gym.  Don’t be fake.  Don’t have a spray tan.  Or even too good of a real tan, unless you got it water skiing, as opposed to “laying out” on the roof of your apartment building in a speedo.  And have something wrong with your face.  A little something.  A too big nose.  A crooked tooth.  Something to give you character.  And, as I mentioned, have soulful eyes that hint at brilliance and, possibly, torment.

If you pass the first stage of scrutiny, I will probably find it difficult to speak to you.  So if I’m ignoring you, and/or drinking heavily, please, talk to me.  It means I like you.  When you do, don’t mention my boobs.  Even if they are pushed up to my chin, and the only thing standing between them and the night air is a couple of glittery heart pasties.  Dear God, at least PRETEND you like me for my face.  Or my knees.  Or my snazzy sense of humor.  If we get through one conversation without you:

  1. mentioning my boobs
  2. revealing you have a secret stash of AK-47’s stored in a hydrogen-bomb-proof bunker beneath your house

C. waxing effervescent about the joys of dismembering small animals

  1. D.  admitting an avid aversion to Leaves of Grass and/or Rebel Without a Cause 
  2. saying “irregardless,” “nucular,” or “hoochie momma”
  3. declaring Ted Nugent your hero

we will move on to the next phase of our courtship.

Unless I’ve already passed out in my vodka and/or thrown up on you, the next phase will start like this.  I will say something like, “How do you feel about God?”  If you:

  1.  pull out a copy of your brand of religion’s holy book and thump me on the head with it
  2. snort and declare all spiritual people idiots

our conversation will end.

If, on the other hand, your tortured, deep eyes light up, and you begin discussing a transcendent experience you had with Jesus, the goddess statues on Malta, or the works of Yeats, with particular emphasis on the poems he wrote about Maud Gonne, I will lean forward eagerly.  (Hopefully, this isn’t where I vomit.)  If you try to start a conversation about the metaphorical significance of Job’s boils, I probably just drop my pasties right there. (Again, see the Satan of Tequila story.)

Ok, now, you’ve passed a few of the tests.  You are attractive, but not TOO attractive.  You seem intelligent enough.  You are on a spiritual path that doesn’t involve wanting to kill anyone who isn’t on the same spiritual path as you.  My dear, here is the moment when you reveal your glorious artistic genius.  You can do this in several ways:

  1.  Start playing the guitar.  Or, if there is no guitar within reach, grab the salt and pepper shaker and start beating them against the tabletop in a way that suggests a casual, but brilliant, drum solo.  Try not to get pepper in my eyes, but if you do, it’s not a deal killer.
  2.  Recite a few lines from Hamlet.  If you pick up the skull shaped tequila bottle on the table and say, “Alas, poor Yorick, I knew him well,” I’ll be putty in your hands.  (Be prepared for me to bust out my Lady MacBeth.  It’s good.  “OUT, DAMNED SPOT.  OUT, I SAY!” I’m going to name my next dog spot just so I can throw him out of the house regularly while spouting those lines.)
  3. C.  Dance.  This doesn’t have to be good dancing.  Sometimes, bad dancing is better.  But let me know you feel the music, man.
  4.  Make casual reference to the book, play, record, painting, sculpture, macaroni collage you are working on.  If your hair is long-ish, it doesn’t hurt to toss it around a bit here.  It enhances your artistic aura.
  5.  If you can walk on water, this is a good time to show off that skill.

Ok, I said all that, but also, sitting in the corner looking tortured and refusing to talk to me works too, as long as you are good looking but not too good looking and have deep, soulful eyes.  In fact, sitting in the corner looking tortured hints at above average intelligence, artistic genius, and spirituality, without saying it outright.  It is the messiah-boy version of playing hard to get.  It’s almost more attractive.  If you want to whisper fervently to an imaginary friend every so often, go ahead.  Don’t think I haven’t stayed up all night watching A Beautiful Mind again and again, rocking gently and wailing, “Where is my John Nash?”  Because I have.

That was the most un-lurid sex ninja confession ever.  But suffice it to say, if you pass all those tests, and then you take me out on a few deep dates (think art opening, indie rock concert, sitting together on your back lawn looking at the stars and saying things about God and/or aliens), and you still seems messiah-y, we are going to get jiggy wid it.  I will do bad, bad things to you, boy.  Do I have your attention?  Mmm hmm.  I thought so.

Now you know why they call me the sex ninja.

Post Script: The sex ninja hasn’t had sex in a long, long, long, long, long, long, long, long, long, long, long, long, long, long, long , long, long, long, long, long, long, long, long, long, long , long, long, long, long, long, long, long, long, long, long time.  She can’t figure out why.

About Tawni Waters