Trickle Down Voyeurism

It has come to my attention that the people who read this blog are FUCKING WEIRD. I already knew that, but apparently my readership includes at least one parent of one person I have graphically described fucking within this blog. Hearing stuff like that wigs me out. What kind of father-son activity is that? Sure, my mom knows about this blog, but she actively does not read it, even though, at times, content from this blog peppers into our daily conversations. I guess mostly I’m concerned because if his parent is reading this blog, is it because the parent is thinking about his child fucking someone, or is it because the parent is thinking about fucking me? I feel like this is, in every way, a fairly trite sexual fantasy for me to roll with, but, fuck it. Now we’re all thinking about the parent of the dude I fucked reading about me fucking the son, and what are we going to do with that sexual image now? Also, some dude’s dad is also reading about me fucking people other than the son, too, so there’s that part of it!

Eh, I can masturbate to that.

Dog People

“Are you a dog person?” my friend asked me as a superior breed of canine breezed past us and she reached out to pet it.


“That means no.”

I laughed. No, I am not a dog person in the traditional sense of what she meant by “dog person.” She meant: do you get that warm, fuzzy feeling when you see a dog? No, I do not. I like dogs, but I have not been hard wired to touch beautiful creatures when I see them walk by. There’s something about a dog’s inability to consent and the idea of a dog being denied personal boundaries that makes me feel wary about touching them when I see them in public.

Actually, I am a dog person. But only if you want me to be. I have the outfit and everything: the dog collar, the ears, the nose and the big, bushy butt plug. I like bouncing around on all fours and barking like a dog. It’s actually one of my favorite weird sex things that I do all the time. It gets mixed reception, mostly because I try to go all the way with it, complete with inability to consent and being denied personal boundaries. It’s not for everyone.

As a dog person, I admit that I respect dogs. I haven’t spent very much of my life as a dog person, but letting someone consensually treat you like a dog for sexual purposes kinda makes running up to dogs and petting them and talking to them and lavishing attention on them feel…a little weird. But I guess that’s why I do it – I’ve had plenty of boyfriends who loved their dogs more than me, so in a desperate attempt to compete for love and attention, I became a dog person.



I’ve been lurking around various Internet dating forums lately. Mostly because I like reading about the first hand experience of trying to connect with other people. I find it to be fascinating. Also it’s a treasure trove for inspiration for things to write here. The most recent forum I read was about DTR: defining the relationship.

Having been a fuck girl in Oakland for years upon years, I found the DTR thread to be quite fascinating. Nobody in Oakland ever defines their relationships. It’s part of the pleasant chaos of fucking each other. If you never have a boyfriend, then you’re never technically cheating. It’s a cheap way to hedge the moral high ground.

My last relationship was a study in the art of DTR chicken. Five years into casually fucking on and off and also saying, “I love you”, and meeting each other’s parents, and going to church together, I asked the guy if we were dating. It was a silly question. We went on dates. Of course we were dating. But I come from a generation of fuckers that will date you into the fucking grave and never put out, or who will put out forever but never want to go on a date. I was going on dates with this guy and fucking him all the time, but when I asked for a bit of, well, not DTR but more like clarify this relationship so we can be on the same page – I got rejected.

It was weird. I’m the type of person who doesn’t like to go around saying, “I’m dating so&so” if so&so tells people we’re just fucking. The reason I don’t like doing that is because I don’t like it when people I fuck think we’re dating. It’s bad form, and it’s also creepy and annoying. So I do unto others as I would have them do unto me. We’re not dating until it’s a mutual decision.

After I did the DTR thing with homeboy and he said we weren’t dating, I realized: well, I put myself out there. If he wants to date me, I’m sure he’ll let me know. Fast forward ten months (yeah, I can hold my breath for ten months), and he told me, “You always tell people that I’m you’re friend.”

“Well, we’re friends, aren’t we?” I replied. I had no interest in asking him if we were otherwise. Fast forward through one big argument, and he asked me to be his girlfriend. After damn near six years of fucking him.

We broke up two weeks later, but the point is: DTR is a petty mind game for weak spirited people. I fucked that guy for six years, had him coming over to my mom’s house for holidays and shit, but we only dated for two weeks. In my mind, two weeks is a short enough period of time to not even really count. He was never my boyfriend. He’s not even my ex. He’s just a person I used to fuck, and when my mom asks me about him I roll my eyes and change the subject. That doesn’t mean I never loved him. It just means we never had a real relationship, which is probably why I had no problem breaking up with him.

Two weeks? That’s nothing. Six years? Well, he was a consistent fuck so I do miss that.

Long Term, One Sided Tinder Relationships

I was scrolling through my Tinder messages the other day when I found one of those gems of a conversation. You know the type (ladies): a completely one sided conversation between you and someone that started years ago.

I stumbled across one of these conversations the other day. With someone to whom I have never responded. I scrolled up to the top, and there it was: our match date – November, 2014.

Gosh I thought More than three years of not knowing a person. How strange.

I thought about what I was doing and who I was in November 2014. Ah, yes – call me nostalgic, but that’s when I first started hanging out with Gangsta Boo. The juxtaposition of those two “relationships” struck me: after more than three years, I have come to know this person in a deeper way than I ever could have imagined. In many ways, knowing him has helped me to better know myself.

On the other hand, this joker in my Tinder inbox is just another nobody. Another could have been parading around my Saturday morning memories as I paint myself pretty illusions of what would have happened had I responded to this guy instead, and fucked this guy instead, and where would we be today instead.

I clicked on the guy’s Tinder profile. He wasn’t terribly attractive or memorable. I don’t know why I swiped right on him. He looked like the type of person I could forget even if I fucked him a couple of times. Lord knows there are plenty of people I have forgotten by now. I’m sure they have forgotten me, too.

But this guy has been messaging me intermittently for three years to no avail. With no response. That kind of tenacity perplexes me. Clearly, I am not a catfish, but after three years – what keeps him coming back? Is it a numbers game? Three years is a long time to sustain a one sided conversation. What kind of new male psychopathy have these dating apps spawned?

I know I should do the merciful thing and unmatch him. But you know me – I’m a glutton for the spectator sport of other people’s unravelling. How long will I have Tinder. How long will these people continue to message me. Three years seems extreme. What about 10 years? 30 years? I’m inspired by the human desire for sex and love, that it would motivate someone to try and try again in the face of certain failure. I think that’s the text book definition of insanity, but I also find it to be endearing. The human heart is capable of so much emotion that is beyond my own scope of the experience of love.

Play on, players.

Confronting My Own Emotional Duality

I find myself, yet again, in another one of those situations where I am an asshole. For the nth time ever, I have hurt someone who loves me. I am the same as ever: a monster.

I realize that these epithets and mean words are being thrown in my face because I’m supposed to learn something about myself. But little do they know: I already know. I know what’s wrong with me, and, unfortunately, it’s the same thing that’s right with me.

I am a woman of big emotions. I’m all over the emotional spectrum, in brilliant and bursting emotional extremes. The joy and love I experience are insurmountable, but, unfortunately, the pendulum swings in both directions with equal force. The hatred and the misery I experience are likewise gargantuan.

I find that when I am in the positive extremes of my emotional capacity, I attract people with my charisma and my energy. I love a good time, and so does everyone else who shows up to enjoy it. However, as soon as the tide starts to turn and the darkness inside me swells to the surface: I am the monster.

When people point out that I am unpleasant when I’m angry or having a bad day, I know that what they want is for me to not be angry or having a bad day. But that’s an impossible task. There will always be bad days.

Instead, what I hear is: your emotional extremes are not convenient to anyone around you when they’re negative. And that’s just what it is: I operate in emotional extremes, and the good is tempered with the bad. And vice versa. Without extreme joy there is no extreme sadness. Yet when people criticize me for my extreme sadness or rage, they don’t understand that at the same time they are criticizing the extreme joy that they, too, benefit from.

This makes me wonder: who would I be if I operated within normal emotional limits? My emotional extremes are not pathological – I’m still functional. I wonder why these people do not tell me that I’m a monster when I’m doubled over with laughter and running around at night dancing til the wee hours of the morning. It’s the same monstrosity inside me. People are comfortable watching me bound around in positive mania. That is socially acceptable. My sadness and my darkness, however, are the constant cause of scorn in my life.

I reject this. I understand myself, and I understand that it’s okay for me to experience the full depth of my emotions. That depth is frightening, but it’s still okay. It’s okay because I understand that even in the darkest of times, I will bounce back. Even in the happiest times, I will bounce back. My emotions might just be neurochemical misfirings, but they shape my reality and my experience of the world. My experience of the world is real and valid; my emotions are real and valid. My emotional capacity is human and real.

When people try to guilt me for being in my feelings at the dark end of the spectrum, it just makes me wonder: why were they here for the good times if they couldn’t handle the bad times? It makes me doubt their ability to grasp the human experience, to plan for it, to love other humans despite human nature. Bad times are always coming.

When people opt out of their so-called loyalty when the bad times come, it makes me doubt the entire relationship. If you are not here for me in a crisis, then why are you here? The crises can be survived. Bad relationships cannot.

Although, relationships are not static rooms that we step in and out of whenever we want. Relationships are living, breathing expressions of human interconnectivity. Relationships are a dance. We come in close, then we whisk away. And it is okay to step back from relationships, to breathe, to reevaluate. But to step away when I am pulling you in close because I need you, and to then blame it on a fundamental aspect of my human nature that I cannot change and from which you have benefited in the past – that is cruel.

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He’s Cumming

“Oh my god, I’m cumming!”

He whips out his dick and I look over in glee as, dick in hand, there it goes, squirting out, and now there’s come everywhere. I was kinda hoping he would cum inside me, but I think he’s dealt with too many pregnancies and abortions to fall for that one ever again, although, hey, I’m on the best birth control on the world. Maybe I should tell him. But now isn’t the time for that, as we’re lying there naked and both covered in cum and sweat. The sheets on my bed are slightly slipping off. The pillows are strewn across the floor. It’s like a stunned silence, this moment of afterglow. The sun breaking in from behind the curtains. Both of us lying there, too fucked to move, although I tell him there’s a towel over there, although should I stand up and hand it to him? I don’t feel like standing up. Not after all that fucking. Not after he made me cum like that and the delight of his dick inside me still has me reeling and nailed to the bed.

I don’t know if I should look at him or if I’m supposed to look away. I feel like a greedy child as my eyes graze over his thighs and his cock and the hair on his chest. I’m too afraid to look into his eyes and see what’s in there, so I lean for a little bit and kisses on neck. God, I love to watch him cum. I love to look at him right after he’s done cumming. I like the noises he makes, the things he says. I like feeling his body between my legs as slightly he loses it and succumbs to the sensation of cumming. And cumming. Sometimes I almost want to laugh when he cums, because there’s something inherently funny about cumming. The noises and the motions of cumming – it’s not very serious, but I know if I laugh it might be perceived as ridicule. But, really, I laugh because I’m enjoying every moment of everything that is happening, and I’m thrilled by his dick as he squirts out cum. The beautiful cum. I made him cum. I love making him cum.

God, I would do anything to make him cum. I would make him cum all day, every day, if only he gave me the chance. I would bend over backward just to make him cum, and sometimes I do. I would crawl through dirt with half the produce section rammed up my ass if it would only make him cum. I want him to be cumming forever, here, with me, or at least fucking as furiously as we possibly can. I find a slice of my self worth in his orgasms (and also mine), and I would do anything to make him cum because I know he would do anything to make me cum, too. But enough about me, because isn’t this blog about how much I like to cum all the time? And what about him, the one who makes me cum? The one who makes me cum like crazy whenever I want? I wish that there were some way I could repay him for all the orgasms he has given me, so kindly and so patiently. I know that I will never be able to make him cum as much as he makes me cum, and I guess that is okay, because there are so many men before him (and after, too) who didn’t care nearly as much about my orgasm as he did. It was not nearly as much fun to make those men cum. It is not fun to watch a man cum, after all the work, especially if you know that your own orgasm will never be arriving any time soon. But him? He makes me cum all the time, and all I want is to do the same for him. I want to lie here forever, naked and heaving, covered in his cum and satisfied by knowing that I’m his baby and I make him cum the best out of all the rest of them, ever. If only dreams come true. One day…

When Does Sex End?

Does sex end when the guy cums? Or when the girl taps out? When do we stop fucking? I can never tell, personally, because no matter how much my body might be hurting or shutting down or dried up and desiccated, there’s something in my mind that screams, “Keep going!” Perhaps because I know that this moment will end eventually, but isn’t this everything that I have been working towards all week? Haven’t I wanted, above all other things, to be close to someone else? In the most carnal way possible. We need to keep fucking right now as an act of desperation in order to transcend our skin and our bones, and maybe if we fuck long enough and hard enough, one day we will wake up and we will no longer be separate, but we will have finally become two people in one body. Connected. Not forever, but for as long as it’s pleasant, and cumming is not symbolic of the end of everything that I am trying to achieve here. Cumming is something that I can do over and over again. I go to the gym and work out every day so that when the moment comes for me to take off my clothes and dive in, I will be awake and ready and able to fuck for as long as we need. Until we can fuck no longer. Until I can’t keep my eyes open. Until it is impossible to do this anymore. When my body is wreck and your dick is falling off. Until I can’t possibly cum one more time. Sex ends in a moment of failure, realizing that we are separate now, and we will always be separate, so we might as well sleep it off before we get up and drift apart tomorrow morning (or afternoon). Because sex doesn’t end after one person’s one orgasm, or even if he can’t get it up, or if I’m tired. Sex ends when I no longer want to be close to you, or I can no longer be close to you. Although, if I had my way, sex would never end, and we would be here forever, cycling in and out of fucking and sleeping and eating while the rest of the world melts away. I would like that. Wouldn’t you like that? To fuck me forever? I’ll call it true love, but all you have to do is call me back and come over tomorrow night. It will be wonderful. Forever.

The Fuck Feast Sexual Literacy Test

And, speaking of call backs and sexual literacy tests, here’s a list of things that I expect a man to ace on the first hook up:

  • Mastery of Attraction So, this is everything that happens before we get into the bedroom. A mastery of attraction means that you have a rudimentary understanding of the female ego, interpersonal communication and lust. A little bit of flattery, well responded to text messages, and flirtation. This is also the mastery of being attractive, so, y’know, take a shower and put on some nice shoes, okay?
  • Ability to get it up This is crucial. Look, if you can’t get it up, that’s fine. You overindulged. Or you’re nervous. Or you’re just no that into this. That’s fine. However, if you can’t get it up, why did you wheedle your way into my bedroom? Why are my clothes off if you can’t perform? I understand that we all can’t be perfect all the time, but being able to get an erection is crucial to fucking, and if you can’t do that, then you’re just not ready for this, honey, and you’re wasting my time. It’s back to the friend zone for you. Unless, of course, you make up for it with copious amounts of oral sex. That’s cool.
  • Oral Sex To be specific, cunnilingus. This is so day one. If you don’t eat pussy, then get the fuck away from me. If you don’t eat pussy, I can’t imagine what else it is that you won’t do. Eating pussy is the most basic move in the book, and if you don’t have this mastered, then who are you and what are you doing with your life?

Read more →

A Woman’s Experience of Lust Part II

There are snakes in my eyes as I slither between these sheets to wind up the leg of some new beast, slurping up sins and sensation like a newborn Eve on her first night fucking Adam. And what does it feel like to eat meat, red, raw and dripping while white blankets carry the new stains of another night in heaven. I would like to know what it feels like to be good, but I am too busy being bad to ever stop and pause and consider any other alternative option. I just let my fingers do the talking, whispering sweet nothings to the buttons at the top of your pants, singing sweet songs to your zipper as I zip and unzip and pull down and around. We both know what kind of secrets are hidden therein, all those beautiful inches upon inches of – well, inches of you. Read more →

A Woman’s Experience of Lust

Lust, which is just how I like it. But this is my lust, not yours. This is my deep, red sin, not yours. This is my experience of lust, my singular experience. I cannot vouch for your experience of lust, but I am offering you mine in the hopes that it can illuminate and accentuate your own experience of lust. To make it better. So that we can all experience lust on an elevated level, fine tuned and tingling in the night. This is my experience of lust, gnawing raw through the night, while yours might be elsewhere, sipping tea in the sunshine on a vast, grassy field. My lust is a beast, but yours…well, what is yours? Is your lust a rabbit, soft and petting, or a shark, filled with teeth? Is your lust a car that goes fast and crashes through the median? Or an explosion in a coal mine, killing everything around it? Is it blistering and bright? Yellow and pretty? Or does it skulk around, alone through rooms, looking ugly and yelling loudly?

This is my experience of lust. This is my experience of that chafing, fast emotion. It is a dangerous situation that I wade through wantonly, and you are welcome, dear spectator, to watch me stumble down. But you? Well, I expect you to experience lust in your own way, and if you would like to laugh at me while you do, please be my guest. But if anything, make sure that you experience your lust as beautifully as possible, because I certainly am.