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Hello! I’m comedian/writer Carolyn Busa and welcome
to My Sex Project.
My Sex Project is my attempt to write about sex, love, life and more every week for year. Say hello!

Doggystyle

Doggystyle

I thought living on my own would be a non-stop fuck fest. For the first time in my life I could finally be as loud as I want while simultaneously being as naked as I want. The ultimate dream. But I learned quickly that just because I no longer had human roommates, did not excuse me from disturbing my other roommate, my 9-year old, French Bulldog, Remy. 

Adulting.

Adulting.

Remy does not make it easy to bring people back to the apartment. As soon as a tongue goes in a mouth, as soon as a stare lingers just a little too long, you can count on Remy to get in the way. He immediately acts out. He demands attention. He’ll decide an ant trap that has sat untouched for months is his new favorite toy. He’ll thrash his bed around at your feet, tearing his own precious pillow to pieces until taken away and hidden from him. I live in a society where paying for sex is illegal, yet I’ve been paying for it in the form of doggy beds for years. Go ahead, arrest me. 

From an outsider, Remy seems like a hot, jealous mess that needs to be locked in a crate and dog whispered. But I’ve known this puppy for 7 years. I know why he does what he does and why I forgive him every time. Remy makes it hard for me to fuck because, well, I fucked him up. 

I got Remy on Labor Day, 2012. I decided on my day off that instead of relaxing, I would get a dog. I never had a dog. Whenever I was sad as a little girl, I would want so badly to have a little puppy face come up to me and lick my tears. The lizards and hamsters I did have couldn’t do that and looking back, neither could the man I lived with at the time. At least not with an argument moments later. 

So, I had been emailing with Remy’s previous owners and decided Labor Day would be the day I meet (and possibly keep) their 2-year old Frenchie.

Photo sent to me by owner. Remy at 3 months.

Photo sent to me by owner. Remy at 3 months.

My boyfriend, who was supportive but less excited about this decision, drove with me to Brooklyn from South Jersey (Yes, my dog lived in Brooklyn before me!). I barely remember my first moments with Remy. I remember him being at the top of the steps super excited visitors were there. I remember playing with him for a little and I remember his owners tearing up when we left together. I remember looking back at Remy as he sat panting in the backseat of my red, Ford Focus. There was my new dog! I was super excited and with Remy’s adorable, smiling, panting face, I thought he was too.

Our first night together.

Our first night together.

However, despite Remy’s first night with me being wonderful (I accidentally dropped a huge stuffed mushroom from Wegmans), Remy’s first year with me was not easy. He was plopped into the middle of an unhealthy, dying relationship. Remember how awkward you felt when you overheard your parents argue? Now imagine that except you’re a dog with ears bigger than your face. Intuitive yet confused. Tuned in yet clueless. 

Forever listening.

Forever listening.

Remy and my ex quickly clashed. They had their loving moments but my ex was a big man with a noticeable anger problem. Remy was an anxious dog torn away from the only life he’s known. I felt stuck, unequipped to deal with the situation as productively and maturely as I would have liked. The one side of me was a woman trying trying to make it work with her lover, the other was a little girl who wanted to desperately bond with her dog. I wanted to give Remy all the love and attention but was demanded to give it to my failing relationship. One hour I’d be teaching Remy to leave visitors alone as they entered, the next hour I’d be escaping myself.

Stuck.

Stuck.

And finally I did escape. To Brooklyn. But Remy didn’t join me right away. Subletting and going on interviews wouldn’t be easy with a dog, so for almost three months, Remy remained in South Jersey with my parents. I know this was the right decision but I also know I, for the third time, shook up Remy’s life. Sure, he had a big backyard and ‘grandparents’ who would make him a scrambled egg every now and then, but I was not there. Seeing him on Facetime made me happy but provided nothing to him. What good’s a human without a scent?

Checking in.

Checking in.

I was excited when Remy could finally join me. Especially now that I had two male roommates who could provide an energetic aggression with Remy that was playful, not fearful. I was so lucky that despite Remy being a somewhat difficult dog, Greg and Aaron adored him.

Remy’s first visit to Prospect Park.

Remy’s first visit to Prospect Park.

Fam.

Fam.

Remy certainly still had his moments of being a hot mess (peeing inside, jumping up on visitors, hating the landlord), but we were finally creating a stable life and relationship with each other. The mom/pup bond was getting stronger. 

And then there was ‘the incident’. Oh yes. I thought since Remy and I were finally grooving, he should start grooving with his own species. In my one (and only) attempt to find Remy canine friends, Remy got himself into a scuffle with a neighbor’s dog. He walked away from it seemingly fine until the next night when he started making noises I had never heard in our time together. X-rays, MRIs, and a ruptured disc surgery later, my Remy now had the physical scars to match his emotional ones. 

Post-surgery puppy. OMG.

Post-surgery puppy. OMG.

Remy may have recovered just fine from his surgery (thank you doggy diazepam!), but I admittedly gave up on scheduling any more pup playdates. And frankly, so did Remy. To this day, any dog that wants to play, Remy either straight up ignores or wants to murder. I’ve seen dogs ‘puppy bow’ with the grace and dignity of a Buckingham Palace visitor only to be met with my avoidant, ‘couldn’t give less of a shit’, Mr. Bean-like Remy. 

Which brings me back to the start. I got Remy 7 years ago. The Ford Focus and boyfriend have come and gone, both ending terribly. One on Thanksgiving Day on the side of the road in Staten Island, the other over a 5-year time period sprinkled with intensity, anger, and name-calling. Guess who was there for both?

Me and Remy saying a tearful goodbye to my ‘Pussy Wagon’ in Staten Island.

Me and Remy saying a tearful goodbye to my ‘Pussy Wagon’ in Staten Island.

Remy doesn’t make it easy for me to bring guests home, just like I didn’t make life easy for Remy. His panting face in the backseat of my car 7 years ago may have looked cute, but I have grown to recognize that expression as anxiety. I believe my trauma, our trauma, still lives in Remy in a much different way than it lives in me. As I slowly healed through therapy and long talks with friends and sweaty dances, Remy remained a dog. Remy’s old owner once warned me that Remy was shook by the noise of a storefront gate being opened as a puppy and it is still a noise that gets him running.

So no, I don’t think it’s that Remy is anti fuck fest. I don’t think it’s that Remy senses bad vibes from certain lovers (that would be a blessing) and I don’t think it’s that Remy disapproves of my kinkier preferences (although I will say, it is very hard to be submissive while discipling your pet). Remy is doing the best he can. 

I hope Remy senses I’m not going anywhere, we’re not going anywhere. I would love for him to let some of his anxieties go, to let people into his world, ultimately letting them into my world. Because I know I struggle with that too. I love my cozy existence with Remy and often wonder if I love it too much, if I’m shutting myself out like the friend who disappears after they start dating someone new or in my case, the girl who’s settling into solo adulthood. In the meantime, I’m trying not to be too hard on myself or Remy. He’ll always be my number one, no matter what I scream in the bedroom. 

Number 1

Number 1

In fact, I think Remy’s distracting behavior may actually prove to be for my benefit. When Remy knocks the passion and spontaneity out of sexy moments, it forces me to ‘break character’ and simply be Carolyn. I have to bring a very real part of myself to a situation where I was maybe playing pretend. Perhaps this is Remy’s litmus test. If it doesn’t feel right to be vulnerable, be embarrassed, be myself with a person, what’s the point? Less bullshit, more regular shit.

Coupla shits.

Coupla shits.

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