Reasons Why You Should Take Back Your Boyfriend After He Was Messing Around Behind Your Back

1. You were messing around behind his back, too, and you don’t want to be hypocritical.

2. You were messing around behind his back a while ago, and you don’t want to be hypocritical.

3. You plan on messing around behind his back in the future, and you don’t want to be hypocritical.

4. You have his ATM PIN, and you just need enough time to steal his card before cashing yourself out and dumping him.

5. You’re married, you’re the breadwinner, and you didn’t sign a prenup. Take him back until you find the right lawyer. Then divorce his ass.

6. I can’t think of any other reason. What other reason could there possibly be!

Anyone Else

I’m so fucking sick of you. All the god damn time, and everywhere, too. In a way that makes it so I can’t look away, which is really unfair, because I don’t want to see you anymore. You, everywhere. I would like for you to go away. To shut up. To accept your dismal, irrelevant existence, and to stop rubbing it in my face. I would like to look at someone different. Someone who doesn’t look like you. Someone without that dopey look on his face, expecting me to accept you and all your flaws because you have grown to believe that it is my duty to do so. Newsflash: it’s not. I don’t have to love you. I don’t even have to like you. I certainly don’t respect you, and I don’t think you’re special. You’re scum, really, for all the terrible things you have done, and there you are, wagging your tail and expecting me to tell you that it’s okay. But it’s not, and that’s the problem, isn’t it? You’re everywhere, and you’ve done all these atrocious things, but you think I should think you’re beautiful? That hurting other people was hard for you? That being like this is a burden, when everyone else out here – and we all agree on this one – you’re the worst. You’re the absolute worst, and we all fantasize about what life would be like without you. How happy we would be without you. You think you’re so important, but what you don’t know is that we’re all waiting in the cuts, plotting your downfall. All of us! Every last one of us! We’re all so fucking sick of you! And your control issues, your need for power, your aptitude at oppressing everyone around you. You’re joyless, really. You’ve built an empire of pain, but we are here to occupy your throne. Or, to destroy it. No one should be like you. May my children never be like you. May they avoid the pain of being a white man. As you plaster yourself on billboards and in T.V. shows and tell everyone else that you are the standard of beautiful. But you’re so fucking ugly. To me, and to everyone else. Nobody even likes you! Nobody wants you here! Why did you even come here in the first place? You’re not welcome here anymore. Please leave. Please don’t talk to me. Please stop touching me. Get the fuck away from me, and, yes, I would like to see you cry as you walk out the door. Piece. Of. Shit.

A Chronicle of My Feminist Journey

I was always afraid growing up. Because that’s the way that the world taught me to be: afraid. Of so many things, but, most specifically, dark alley ways, men offering me money and fame, being alone late at night, strangers and success. Success being something worth fearing because successful women have done dirty things in order to attain their success, such as walking down dark alley ways, canoodling with men who offered them money and fame, being alone late at night and hanging out with strangers. While I understand the social functionality of warning young girls against making eye contact with random men on public transportation, for all my twenty seven years of taking public transportation, and walking down public streets, and generally being an adult, I have to admit that their advice was unwarranted. Sure, some of these strangers have pulled up to me in their car in the streets of Richmond, telling me I should get in if I want some free cocaine. And some of these strangers have approached me in bars, trying to put a hand up my skirt with promises of a sexual pleasure I didn’t want. But, for the most part, the strange men I have met have mostly been innocuous, and when they haven’t been innocuous – well, I know that this is a naughty thing to say, but I’ve been fine on my own. I know that they don’t want the rest of the women to know this, because a woman doing fine on her own in society is somehow such a huge threat, but it’s true. And I wish I would have known way earlier how fine I truly could be on my own. Maybe then I wouldn’t have turned away from so many opportunities, so many invitations, so many new experiences. Maybe if society hadn’t whispered in my ear, “He’s going to drug you and rape you!” I would have walked down a different path. If every man that I encountered hadn’t already been painted as a leering villain who was going to beat me and cheat on me. Sometimes men get a bad rap, but I’ve also noticed that only certain men get a bad rap. You know what I’m talking about. The black ones. The brown ones. Those were the ones I was supposed to be afraid of, the ones lurking in dark corners with bad deeds on their lips. But, let me tell you! I have been in those dark corners, and I have looked for bad people, and more often than not there was no one there. There was no one plotting against me, or against women in general. In fact, by the time I was done looking for that bad man that my mother had warned me against I realized, plain and simple: the most frightening thing lurking in this dark corner is me. I am the beast that they fear, and there’s something empowering in that. There is so much humanity in the people that I have been taught to fear, but what should surprise you more than that is the animalism that I see in the people who claim to be the opposite of all that. Ah, yes, our white saviors, valiant with their pockets full of money and their college degrees. He’s the bad man, but my mother didn’t warn me about him at all. I think that on some level slaves fear their masters, but I am not a slave. I am not afraid of money, or status, or power, and the inherent connection between those things and the color of a man’s skin. I think my mother was wrong, and when I tell her that, she is dismayed, but it is better that way. It is better for me to know who the enemy is, and it’s better that I know that the enemy has told me to fear a certain person who is, in fact, the most human of us all. But I am the beast that my enemy fears, and I wait in the cuts, with this knife in my hand. I am the bad man, or that’s what the enemy says. And I don’t care who knows, because I have this knife in my hand, and this grin on my face, and being a bad man is so much fun, especially when you’re a woman. 

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This is How You Use Her

I am a bad girl. I can’t stop wanting to fuck him every time I see him, which is why I have to look away every time he walks into the room. Even though every time I walk into any room anywhere, I look for him desperately because I want him to be here, now, and I want to feel a certain way. I want to feel my unstoppable lust like a train wreck until my crotch is crashing into his crotch, and things are on fire, and something has exploded, and there are people screaming and crying and gnashing their teeth while we are broadcast across Times Square on some oversized TV screen like an international crisis of utmost importance. This is the kind of thing that makes people wince and want to turn away, but they don’t because there’s something so fantastical about fatalistic self destruction. And that’s what he is for me: my own destruction. Not because of anything he says, and not because of anything he does. And who even knows if he’s even vaguely interested in sleeping with me. He surely doesn’t feel these flames of passion like the lighter flash to the wick of some pipe bomb. He likes, me sure, but it’s not like this for him. This is a one sided thing, this unhinging sensation of desire. And I am crumbling on the inside because of it. I am falling apart, great big chunks of hair are clumping out, my fingernails are broken and my eyes are puffy. I look terrible because of him, but his dick is my drug and I am addicted. I am constantly fiending. I am running around like an idiot, looking for him. Where is he. And how can I get him to love me. Even though he will ruin me – he has ruined me before, and he will do it again, not out of malice or bitterness but because that’s what he does. That’s how the world works. This is how things are, the way they will be: he ruins me. Constantly. And I let him do it, too. Because this is my sexually compulsive behavior. He is my vice. He is the blade of the knife that I am driving into my own back, but it’s him, isn’t it. It’s the moments when we’re lying naked on top of the sheets, and his sweat and my sweat on my lips. When he holds me like it means something to him – like it means anything to him at all! And I believe like a fool, like that orgasm he just gave me was the greatest gift a man could give a woman. Greater than diamonds. Greater than love. Greater than the two of us, and it felt so much like love. I believe it so much. And him? I don’t even know if he’s aware that love exists, but I go for it anyways. So that I can feel satiated in this small moments, with his arm on my hand and the soft words that he mutters carry so much weight. They mean nothing to him, but my heart is rapid as he says those soft things. I am believing them, like a fool, and he is the false prophet of my romantic disillusionment, and I am completely okay with that. I am holding on to him for right now, until he flutters out the door and I am left desperate and broken and embarrassed in this wretched city without him. I am a childless mother, and it is because of him. But that’s okay because I love him.

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.”