By Joi Miner
I was sitting at dinner with some girlfriends, and one of them made a statement that changed my life. Well, it was more like a tangent, but it was life-changing just the same. She was going on about all the “cat life” she’d wasted since she became sexually active. I was on my second Crown Apple and Cranberry, so when she said it to me, I almost spit out my drink from laughing so hard (almost–because that would’ve been alcohol abuse).
After my fit of laughter calmed, I had to ask her to elaborate on this concept of “cat life.” For those of you who are as clueless as I was, cat life is the sex you wasted on someone who was unworthy of it. Before this, I’d seen memes about wanting to take your sex back from someone, but I’d never heard it be given a name. It’s like your vajajay’s odometer. The three minutes, two months, five years, you wasted letting someone into your Notorious V.A.G. and all they left was negativity and bullshit.
As she continued to talk, I started to think back on all of the “life” that I had wasted in the 20 some-odd years since I drove mine off the lot. I swear it was like I slipped into a trance. All of the tear-filled nights, the breakups after wasting time with the wrong men, the one-night-stands that I could’ve traded for a hot bath, glass of wine, a good read, and some quick finger action. All of those times I gave myself away, just for the person to go on about their business and play pelvis pogo with the next chick. We’ve all had at least one person whose house we’d love to show up wearing a hoodie, kick their door in and demand that they give us back all the fake moans, late nights, early mornings, and wasted time.
If you’re anything like me, I’d be on a spree in this bih.
Driving home, as always, I had my moment of clarity. I realized how long it had been since I took mine for its first test drive. I was 14 when I let my cat outta the bag. After ten minutes of heavy breathing and discomfort viola, it was over. That wasn’t a great introduction to sex, but I didn’t know any better, so, I thought maybe there was something wrong with me.
But like a car fresh off the lot, I wanted to stunt. Especially since I believed I had the “good-good.” I cannot tell you how many of the partners from my young adult life would be receiving a visit from my love muffin’s refund fairy, man. By the time I was 18, celibacy was my homie, and my fingers were my best friend, because, 4 years, and 3 boyfriends later, I still had not… ever… not even close to… orgasmed from penetration. But I attributed this to being told that I had “good pussy,” and, since I’ve never owned a meat muscle, I had to take their word for it.
Regardless, though, it baffled me that none of them were able to get me there. Hell, they couldn’t get me anywhere near the finish line! It was like driving in circles in a parking lot. All you’re doing is racking up mileage, and at the end of the day, haven’t gotten any damn where. Now I can see that part of that was my fault. Looking back on it, I had to give the entire situation the side eye. They ain’t even offer me head, and I don’t mean going down there and kissing it a couple of times. I mean sloppy, make me put your ass in a scissor hold ‘til you’re tapping the bed for freedom head. Yep… you read that right, I didn’t receive real-deal oral sex for the first time until I was in college… college. Just sit there for a minute and let that marinate.
So, let’s fast forward to college. At this point, I’d had my first orgasm courtesy of a cymbal player whose tongue must’ve a motor attached to it. I mean, geezus… gimme a moment while I reminisce. Ahhhh, ok. I’m good. Lol. Let’s just say, he earned every kitty second I gave to him. I was like an addict, chasing that first high over and over again. Don’t look at me like that, acting like you didn’t wild out at least a little bit in college. What? cat got ya tongue?
Sadly, what I found was that a man who knows what he’s doing with a woman’s body is beyond rare. I realized I was letting men who were used to driving hoopties behind the wheel of a Ferrari. I bet men are reading this saying, “You must’ve been messing with the wrong ones.” To that, I’ll cue Sunshine Anderson… “Heard it all befooorrreeeee.” You might just be one of those rare diamonds… But for every diamond, there are a shitload of men with that cubic zirconia pump game walking the earth. And a lot of mad, bitter women with “cat life” they lost to these diamond-posers.
Now, before you say we should keep our vajayjay odometers low, let me stop you. Come on, bruh, save that victorian-era subjugation-of-a-woman’s-needs for the 1820s. So, miss me with that double standard that men can slang dick like it’s going out of style, but women ain’t supposed to pop that pussy for a real nigga. (It just happens that all of ‘em aren’t as real as they want you to think they are.)
But back to our regularly scheduled programming…
I must be honest, here is one issue that we have to deal with that men don’t. Unlike the car analogy I’ve been running in the ground, you can’t rebuild the motor or rollback the odometer in ya punany. We can try to keep it like new with kegels, yoni eggs, and vinegar baths and I’ve heard they even have surgery that can electro-shock your little piece of heaven back to almost virgin status. Personally, I’ll stick to my kegels, though, because hooking a car battery up to my hoo-ha doesn’t sound like my idea of a lovely afternoon.
Since I can’t go around knocking on the doors of past loves asking them to give my sex back, I realized that I have to take care of my Bajingo, keep my cat life close and only do the cha-cha slide for those who deserve it. He’s gotta be willing to take the time to make my kitty purr and have me laid up in the fetal position with my thumb in your mouth when he’s done, waking up, walking to the kitchen with a limp to make him an omelet in the morning.
I’m sure there are some men and women who find this subject distasteful, or think a woman should only have had sex with 1.7 men in her lifetime, do me a favor:
Show me your CatFax!