Moment #5,764

There’s sweat on his skin, and there’s sweat on my skin as we lie here in the stench with the fan turned on. Heat bleating in through the cracks in the shades, and I could drink him in to quench my own thirst. But my thirst is unquenchable as we lie on these sheets, tangled between panties and discarded articles of clothing. This is a fleeting moment, and I’ll be leaving for work soon, but there’s something about right now that I can’t let go of. My hand on the sweat on his chest. The sound of his breathing as we wade through right now. Just like we plodded through five minutes ago, both of us heaving and feeling and throbbing and thrusting. Which is how we got here in the first place, naked and sweating and saying not much at all. 

“I’m going to the bathroom,” I say, wresting free of the moment and the heat and his arms. But I’ll be back.

Walking Into a Room Full of Men

They’re leering at me. I can feel it, me in my short skirt and high heels at three in the morning. All of them looking at me with that drunken, stupid male gaze as I burst through that door with a smile on my face, similarly intoxicated but unprepared for the vast wasteland of social opportunities as I’m standing there, quite bewildered as to why I’m in this room at this exact moment. 

My friends are still outside, and I almost want to laugh because I had warned them in the car, “I’ll probably be on of, like, two girls there because, y’know, it’s these people.” Although I had felt hopeful, because invitations to late night shindigs generally aren’t fucking traps. As I’m standing there, all alone, in a room full of leering men. And I’m a lecherous person, too, so as I survey the room I can see the buoyant vision in their eyes of some sort of gang bang, which makes recoil in horror as I look back to the door. Where are my friends? 

Although, I’m not dumb, and my friends this time around aren’t a posse full of prissy girls who are going to get caught in this trap. My friends are six big ass dudes, and it’s at the exact moment that they come barrelling through the door that the lecherous gaze lifts from the room, but the ratio hasn’t improved and I’m still one to twelve. Fucking Christ. I take a swig of whiskey and book it as fast as possible because fuuuuuck thiiiiiis shiiiiiit. And there’s nothing even vaguely feminist about being the only girl in the room at 3am with the lines of cocaine and the bottles of whiskey and the impure thoughts of varying degrees wafting through the room. I’ve just made another bad decision, but, that’s okay, I’m going make an even better decision as soon as I get somewhere else, and that will make everything all right. 

Fuck Feast Versus PUA

I was standing outside the bar taking selfies because, y’know, it’s 2014 and I’m 26 years old. What else are people doing nowadays? Anyways, that’s the besides the point, but it was late and the people inside seemed a little bit peeved that the flash was disrupting their drinking. Which didn’t bother me, but then one of them came outside.

“I noticed you’re trying to take a selfie,” he said. 

“Yeah, I was,” I responded, still blinded from four failed selfie attempts in a row.

“Need help with a selfie?” he asked.

“Sure,” I replied, thinking he was going to take a picture of me, but instead he wraps his arm around and takes a picture of us together.

“Wanna go on a date?”

“Huh, okay?” I replied, feeling a little bit duped and still a bit blinded by my own overwhelming narcissism. Which was the wrong response, because as soon as the light started to dim a bit, I realized that he this charlatan had fully taken advantage of the moment with me in my hazed state. Ugh, this guy was not attractive but I smiled and weasled away as soon as my friends came out to talk to me. 

“What was that?” my friend asked after the selfie-taker walked away, obviously vanquished after not getting my number.

“Um, the weirdest pick up ever,” I responded. “He took a selfie with me and then asked me on a date, which is weird, because what kind of guys take selfies with female strangers?”

“He was probably a pick up artist.”

“Ugh, really? What do you think he’s going to do with that photo?”

“Who knows?”

“Well, worst case scenario, that picture is going to enter a pantheon of ‘selfies with girls at bars’ spank bank material. Or something.”

“You think?”

“Or, well, who knows. But probably.”


In the pit of my stomach there’s this sudden sensation, and here I am, with this name on this piece of paper. I’ve won, which is thrilling. My whole team has won, which is exhilarating, and while I’m currently feeling overwhelmed with the expected urge to gloat, to stand up and scream my own name, to rip off my shirt and pound my chest. But I can’t even believe it. Who, me? I won? When I didn’t even know we were playing the game, and someone like me? A winner? When I creep between sheets and think about things that could be characterized by low self esteem, but not today, baby. I am no one’s fool today. I am no one’s loser today. I am a winner, which is why I’m smiling as big as I can. Did it all pay off? Or did I even try? Although none of that matters now. What matters is that I’m a winner, although it won’t matter for long because as soon as this smile fades from my face it will be back to the fight so I can win again the next day.

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Date Part IV

My stomach hurts. As I try to stay clever things in this conversation in this nice bar next to the Lake. My stomach’s been hurting for days now, but I try to tamp down on the sensations of achy-ness and discomfort as I sip down this beverage that is intended to dull so many things right now, but stomach still hurts. And he’s sitting there next to me, with his smile and his nice, intelligent things that he’s saying. If he knew that my stomach hurt, what would he say then? What would he have said if I had blown off this date? Would he have been sad and dismayed? Would he have called me again? I didn’t want to bank on him calling me again, because I’m aware of the value of doing things right now and not waiting for next week. So I swallowed a bunch of antacids and called a cab to this bar so I can sit here and pretend not to feel too much pain while pretending to feel like I’m interested in being here and engaging in this conversation.

There was no way I could have blown him off, anyways. Look at him. I try not to look at him as he chews on his food and says things to which I am supposed to respond. What are we talking about right now? Oh, yeah, that’s right. We’re doing the first date, introductory dance of, “Where are you from?”

“I’m from here,” I say, already mildly irritated by the question that I have to answer every time I meet someone new. I’ll never be from anywhere different. I’ll always be from here, which is why people often respond with, “Oh, you’re a local! How rare!” That’s what he says, too, and I hate that answer, although I try to check my hatred and irritation at this conversation, because maybe I’m feeling ornery because of my stomach. Read more →

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 →