Choke Me ~ Guest Post by Katie Petersen

There came a point when I stopped blushing away the slyly ventured notion of promiscuity.  Before, my body was a fleshy fortress of faux-chastity, with every brave knight that scaled its walls greeted as if he were the first to penetrate its interior.  I thought that this was what was expected, what was desired, this virginal veneer.  So I presented myself as a guarded territory ripe for conquest, its battlements resounding with stifled giggles and breathy objections. 

But this practiced persona wasn’t solely for the benefit of my body’s would-be conquerors.  I wanted something from them, too; I wanted to be dominated, to disappear under the weight of their forcibly exercised will.  To ask for this, however, would have been wholly counterproductive to the end of essentially divesting myself of a voice.  In doing so, I would only have succeeded in turning my sexual experience into a farce of an adult bookstore board game, a self-consciously consensual “role play” activity made for the pages of Cosmo magazine.  I could do well without the furry handcuffs and satin blindfolds.  I just wanted to be fucked.  Brutally.

To ask for this, too, would naturally have prompted questions as to why I was asking, both for myself and he to whom the request was posed.  Why did my sexual satisfaction necessitate a submissive stance?  Though seeming to fall under the broad umbrella of “daddy issues,” I found the indiscriminate hoisting of my desires on the shoulders of my absent father to be an insultingly simplistic reduction of what I had come to recognize as a much more complex issue.  I resented the preponderance of pop psychology as it tried to wrest the emotional responsibility for my perversions away from me.

But why, then?  Why did I want to be held down, choked, taken against my will?  Though my desires still amounted to little more than a regurgitated version of the standard, porn-propagated rape fantasy, I nonetheless persisted in the excavation of what I imagined to be a deeply entrenched, subterranean world of perversion.  Maybe I could carve out an inroad in considering my approach to relationships in general.  After all, wasn’t this approach problematically colored by an anachronistic pursuit of a comforting gender binary?  Wasn’t I most at ease when masculine and feminine roles were safely sequestered in opposite poles?  Maybe, then, my search for a dominant partner to counterbalance my submissive self was more symptomatic of a general deficiency than an acutely focused, psychologically embedded fixation.

Though beginning to dust the edges of my desire’s roots, I still wasn’t wholly satisfied with what they revealed.  So it was that I began to consider the issue from a yet broader angle.  Why was I even asking these questions in the first place?  Why this persistent need to rationalize impulses which, by their very nature, defy rationality?  It was shame.  I felt ashamed of my desires.  I felt ashamed of my body.  Most of all, I felt ashamed of the nascent apprehension of myself as a sexual being. 

Having been reared under the watchful eye of the Catholic Church, Our Father, who art in heaven, and Holy Mary, mother of God, I should have been quicker to turn my head to acknowledge this constant bedfellow of humanity.  But all along I was pretending that I had nothing to be ashamed of; that I had never been touched, a passive, nubile body cowering at the approach of its ready conqueror.  And, I realized, it was only in shirking the weight of this deception, and in facing the shame which had, for better or worse, nestled its incessantly interrogatory head onto the pillow beside me, that I could assume any sort of agency in the exercise of my sexuality.

So I let myself be ashamed.  I let myself be punished.  It feels good to have a pair of hands clasped around my neck while a hulking body pounds itself into me.  A blush might still creep onto my cheeks, but it’s not because there’s something I’m trying to hide.

Party Til You Dance Repost

partytilyoudance:

No matter what I do its always the same. I numb and I numb and I numb, but its impossible to forget that the only person who has ever loved me is dead. I guess though, I thankfully never had the chance to really ruin it. I’m just stuck left guessing. Remembering how close we came, how much love there was between us, and how many times one of us decided to be the bigger person. We always thought there was time to figure it out. We had something different, I don’t ache cause I never fucked you or because we didn’t foolishly enter a relationship at the wrong time, I hurt so deeply because I know no one will ever look at me the way you did. No one will ever say the things you did so genuinely. I know I wasn’t your great love (whatever that means), that isn’t what this is about, I just know that you saw me in a way that no one else ever will. We were us, and I know you’d be so angry if I didn’t remember us that way: just me and you. Someone recently told me that the reason I need to figure out how to get myself together is to honor you, to live the life you didn’t finish, to harness all of the sadness and anger I feel and put it towards making myself better. But I don’t know how to do that. Especially without you. At this moment, I still can’t imagine a tomorrow. But I can tell you one thing: I will always regret not kissing you that night in the rain when you said every perfect thing as I cried, so angry at you. We always wanted each other at all the wrong times, maybe I should have let go of my pride. But sometimes, I think that’s all I have. Little girl with a tough exterior, just hoping for someone to love them regardless of the bullshit. You knew that. I love you. Every day sucks without you.

<3 

Body Hair

It’s a great debate, of sorts, and one that makes for interesting bar talk. Sitting there, considering the implications of unshorn armpit and leg hair in the age of neatly preened, high gloss Photoshop images of hairless models lying around languidly in bikinis. The double standard for men and women is keenly noted, seeing as men are allowed to walk around looking like hairy beasts throughout their lives (unless, of course, they’re gay men in Miami, or that’s what I was told). Women, however – we’re expected to shave our entire bodies from the eyelashes down. While some of my friends have taken on the body hair debate (and this doesn’t even include the pubic region) as a feminist cause, refusing to shave their legs and armpits, I, as a feminist who shaves her legs and armpits, feel a bit stuck in between. While I understand that it’s “our bodies, our choices,” there’s still this part of me that has been conditioned to obey the American Media Standards of Attractiveness as enforced by television ads and my innate desire to want to be desired by another human being. It’s a natural instinct, really, and while I realize that just because I don’t feel oppressed doesn’t mean that I’m not actually oppressed, as an ethnic woman with coarser, darker body hair, there’s something a bit comforting, a bit pampering about shaving and/or waxing (as the case may be). Sure, there’s also that part where several of my male friends have rather vociferously and rather consistently expressed their disdain – nay, disgust for women who don’t shave their armpits, but I’ve also come to terms with the fact that I don’t really have a philosophical crusade quite as lofty as feminism with which to justify my need to remove my body hair. Really, I’m just reveling in the fairly shallow argument that I’m still willing to spend an extra twenty minutes a week shaving my legs and armpits if it marginally increases my sexual attractiveness to the opposite sex. Shallow as that may be, I respect my feminist counterparts who refuse to shave, and, also, it’s worth noting that they still get laid all the time by really attractive men, so maybe my argument that it makes me more attractive is null and void. Therefore, maybe I’m just doing it out of force of habit, as has been impressed upon me by American culture, and, at the end of the day, the misperceived boost in attractiveness is just a boon to my sexual self confidence. If that’s the case, so be it. I like feeling self confident.

The Formula for Drink Counting During Mediocre Hook Ups

Meet up at bars late at night, and I’m running out of bars where I can go without running into anyone I know, which would be ideal seeing as my creeping attempts at seduction can be too easily thwarted by the presence of yet another former lover or future former lovers. I must focus on the task at hand, which is me, slowly monitoring my alcohol intake while simultaneously drink counting how much beer he’s sipping down right at this moment, then compounding that math with the probability of his ability to get it up after, what is that? His fifth beer? I check my phone, and it’s already 1AM, which means that the odds of avoiding the inevitable hook up half boner and then deciding if I should say something or just let him deal with his half hard boner and whatever orifice he thinks that he can shove it into while still guzzling down alcohol after last call – sigh. This mathematical calculation also taking into account the fact that he probably doesn’t get enough exercise, and probably doesn’t lead a very healthy lifestyle, and I’m suddenly getting nostalgic for being 22 – well, not me being 22, but when all the guys I hooked up with were 22 and didn’t have this problem. Maybe the CDC should put out a PSA about the benefits of exercise for men, and rather than emphasizing the fact that it helps curtail cancer, they should just be honest and say: If you exercise more, you’ll be able get your dick hard even after you’re totally wasted. Which brings me to the conclusion that I should be hooking up with guys when they’re less wasted, which means that I have to look for men who are self confident enough to take their clothes off without being totally shit face wasted, and also to get a guy to take his clothes off without being totally shit face wasted, I’ll probably have to do them the service of getting to know these theoretical future hook ups a little better than the two hour before last call. 

What can I say, I’m a bartender. It’s my job to drink count everybody I come across. 

The Ultimate Long Con

And what if the biggest con of all, in all of the human history – what if it isn’t about money, or sex, or power, or glory? What if it’s not about being smarter, or prettier, or faster, or richer, but what if it’s just about learning how to trick another human being into loving you. And not so much that it’s perceived as trickery, but the long, smooth con of reeling someone in, the emotional vice grip on another person’s heart, not as an act of cruelty, but an act of – of what? Of love? Hah! The cynic inside me begs to disagree, but that is what it’s about. Because with love, and all it’s ineffable auxiliary emotions, comes some sort of life long coupling. Something that isn’t perceived as shackles, initially, but something less sinister to that. If you can convince another person to suffer for you – well, then, that’s it, isn’t it? The only caveat to that one being, love is never a one way street. If you want someone to suffer for you in the name of love, you have to at least make it seem like the feeling is mutual. So I guess it’s time to learn how to fake that one.

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Burning Sensation

I’m feeling slightly scalded at exactly the place where I can feel his eyes looking at me. My skin might be smoking from the heat that he’s generating with his eyes alone, and I’m shriveled slightly from the sensation of his eyes on my skin. Which I think might be the chemical reaction of lust itching just out of reach and beneath my clothes as I fill my self up with the hotness of wanting and the unbearable desire to suddenly find myself naked and in his arms. But, no, that’s not where I am. Instead, I’m here, which is in the food court at the mall eating a salad while I slowly chew and try to dip into the conversation with clever remarks and without spitting my lunch all over my plate. 

Do I look pretty? I wish I had put on more make up. I wish I had prepared for this moment. I wish I had known he would show up, and, no, I’ve never met him before, but it’s turning out to be a rather unpleasant onset of love at first sight while I secretly hope that my lipstick isn’t smeared all over my face and this dress isn’t very flattering, is it? 

So I smile, and I burn, and I smolder slightly in this plastic chair on the basement level of the food court in the mall. I am wrapped up in flames from his existence as he sits there in that chair, and I wonder if he can smell the charred heart wafting from inside my chest. 

Happy International Pussy Appreciation Day

My pussy. My pussy. My golden fucking pussy.

So I stand in front of the mirror, and there it is, smiling out at me from between my legs. I smile back. At its little lips pressed together, and flesh like tongue poking out slightly.The small hairs that wind out and grow like a well manicured mustache.

“Pussy, I love you,” I whisper as I touch it gently as a sign of appreciation.

“I love you, too,” my pussy whispers back. Read more →

Demoralize Me

I just want to be held. In his arms, with his arm roped around my neck while he’s fucking me from behind. And his other hand in my hair, not gently stroking but violently grabbing and pulling my hair. So that it hurts. I want him to throat fuck me while the mascara runs down my face and all traces of the lipstick that had been smeared along my cheeks dissolves quickly with the saliva that keeps spilling from my lips. I want him to call me a slut. A whore. A cunt. Cheap. Worthless. To spit on me. To slap my ass and shove me face first into the pillow while he fucks me in the ass. Yank on my nipples and touch me and fuck me and that way I’ll know he loves me. I want him to cum on my face, and, then when everything’s all said and done, I want him to ask me, “Who’s Daddy’s little girl?” 

“I’m Daddy’s little girl.”

The Fuck Feast Guide to Whether You Should Fuck That Guy You Know You’re Not Supposed To

~because Teen Vogue isn’t breaking it down with enough realness~

Society is constantly telling us, among other things, that there are certain people that we just shouldn’t fuck. It’s rude, it’s embarrassing, it’s desperate, it’s imprudent, it’s social suicide, it’s politically catastrophic. Well, you know what? Just because you shouldn’t fuck him doesn’t mean you can’t, and because it’s someone you shouldn’t fuck, you know what that means: it’s probably fun as fuck! So, we’d like to give you a quick guide to the pro’s and con’s of fucking that guy that you just know you shouldn’t. (Warning, this is kinda gross. I know, right??)

Your Sister’s/Best Friend’s/Mom’s/Roommate’s Boyfriend (or, even better, Husband!)

They call it sloppy seconds for a reason, but let’s admit it: if you’re in your 20’s, you’re always going to be someone’s sloppy seconds. So don’t let that reason stop you. On the other hand, nothing tastes better than forbidden fruit. The only downside to fucking homegirl’s main man is that you have to be ready to completely forfeit your friendship, and, like any break up, you might find that some of your formerly mutual friends are taking sides that might slightly ostracize you. If you’re just hanging out for a one night stand, you can always rectify the situation with the whole, “Sluts before Fucks! Don’t let men come between us!” bullshit. If you’re going for a full on relationship – well, you can’t get mad when he starts fucking your other best friend. So, before you go down this path, ask yourself: is his dick worth it? I mean, homeboy better be throwing down something fierce in the bedroom. And if he’s not, then revert to the “Don’t let men come between us” bullshit. It might not work, but it also might work. Be prepared to wear the “homewrecker” mantle for a moment, you scurrilous cunt, you! Read more →

Best Places to Have Sex in Public While Bar Hopping in Downtown Oakland

Having sex in public is a finely finessed art, and doing it in Oakland (aka the robbery capital of America) is even trickier. Of course, it’s always important to consider that while your pants are down around your ankles and your going at it with one or more other people, are you vulnerable as a victim of a robbery? Yes. Yes, you are. However, on the flipside, you don’t want to get picked up by the cops for indecent exposure (although, shouldn’t the cops be looking for people who are robbing other people instead of penalizing the merry galavanters of Downtown Oakland watering holes?) or become the buzzworthy spectacle of a group of fellow bar flies. So, it is with great aplomb that we would like to share some of our favorite places for having sex in Downtown Oakland while bar hopping. Because it’s way easier to bang in a parking lot than to take home some stranger and deal with kicking them out of your bed at 4 am, and also if you’re still Downtown you can go get a drink after! (And, also, your significant other probably isn’t scouring alleyways, looking for you and evidence of your cheating heart.)

So, here we go, broken down bar by bar, with the closest, most convenient place to have sex:

Ruby Room The library is right across the street. Of course, sometimes people (aka CNN, shout out to CNN) are hosting their anti-Ruby Room parties there, so you could go check out the Lake, although do so with caution. I’m not sure what the new promenade is like at night, but a hobo threatened to pull a gun on my friend for not bumming him a cigarette, so maybe just stick with the library and if it’s busy try elsewhere. Also, the Lake is plagued with joggers, but I’m sure late night joggers are used to that kind of thing. Also, see Radio. Read more →