Control Your Man

He takes my hand, and I smile. It’s the small things in life that let him know I love him, and vice versa. In this moment, on this couch, with that movie playing in the background, and we’re holding hands. He’s my man, but he doesn’t know it because in his mind I am his woman. In his mind, he is a man, but what he doesn’t know is that he belongs to me. He is mine, and I control him. 

Which isn’t an easy task, and it’s not something that I would want from just any man in this world. But I want it from him, and he is mine because I love him. I control him because I love him, and we are sitting on this couch with his arm around me, holding me like he owns me. But that is not the case. But he does not know this. There are things about the world, and there are things about this relationship, and there are things about me that he does not know. That he cannot know, because I have to protect him from these things. I have to protect him from the world around him, and I do that by giving him the illusion of the upper hand in this relationship. I protect him by loving him, and after he falls asleep at night, I lay awake in bed, counting the ways that I control my dominion. 

The world has told him that people like me are weak. That I am fragile and that I lack physical strength, and that’s okay. Because it is with this delusion that he feels the need to be strong for both of us. That he needs to protect both of us. That he needs to work so that both of us can eat. And that is the way that I like it, because that is the way that I control my man. Because he will do whatever I want him to do – not because I tell him to do it, but because I am a master of my craft, and my craft is concocting thoughts for him to think. He does not know that I do this, as I sit here on this couch, laughing at the funny jokes at the appropriate moments. In fact, he thinks that he controls me. He thinks that the things I do – he thinks that I do them because he tells me to do them. What he does not know is that I am eager to make certain concessions if only to appease and to sustain my position of control in this relationship. What can I say – I’m a benevolent ruler. 

I fuck him because I enjoy fucking him – not because he enjoys it. I cook because I enjoy eating good food – not for his sake. I look the way I look because I have confidence and pride in my appearance – not because he has told me how I can dress or present myself. I say the things I say because I am intelligent and independent – he has no sway over the thoughts in my head. But I love him, so I do not let him know these things. I protect him. Because we are united, and we are in this together.

This is the apex of my feminine wile. Men have tried to tell me that I am evil because I have mastered my craft. Women have tried to tell me that I am weak because my kingdom is small. But what none of them seem to understand is that we are happy. My man? He loves me, and he is happy to love me and to serve me. Me? I aspire to nothing more than maintaining the love that I have cultivated over the years. This is a noble pursuit, and he will never hit me. Although, if he did, there would be certain, swift payback. He will never tell me that I’m stupid or that I can’t do something. But, if he did, I would be smarter and I would do whatever I want. He will never leave me for someone younger and prettier. On the off chance he did, he would be miserable because I am the one who controls him, and she would fail at making him happy in the way that I am make him happy.

He is my man, and I control him. Not the other way around. And when I am bored with him, I will discard him and I will find another one to replace him. 

Lovers’ Moment

He holds me. And everything starts to feel okay again. Maybe this is what I’ve been waiting for. He consumes me, and the minutes that I spend waiting at the bus stop start to make sense because I’m here, right? All the small moments inflected with tedium, all the hours that I spend chugging away at work telling myself that I’m part of something bigger, every time I had to sit through someone else telling me I wasn’t good enough – that’s all gone now. It has melted away because here I am, in his arms, and this is the moment that my whole life has been working up to. This is what I have been seeking. This is what I wanted, and why I suffered, and why I wake up every day and try to look pretty for other people. So that I can lie here, with my eyes closed, the whole world shut out, and just me, and just him. Just us for just right now, and, then, this, too, shall pass. And I’ll be somewhere else yet again, feeling something different, being someone different, but this memory will be with me always. 

Getting In Touch With Your Masculine Side

I haven’t cried in months, but I can remember the last time I made someone else cry. It was last week, actually, as I sat there in my short skirt and my lipstick smile. Crushing in my hands the small mind of someone else, and I’ve been lying in bed late at night, counting the ways that I can kill or be killed. All while doing my kegels, and I am a beast. And I am now privvy to the brutality of survival, and everything it takes to excel at being alive on this planet. Which is fine by me, because I have this push up bra on, and your eyes on my hips, and this knife in my pocket, and these thoughts in my mind that are cleaving a perfect path to victory in this precise social situation. I smile every time I see blood on the sidewalk, and I laugh as I watch it trickle down. I cannot remember the last time I held someone close to my bosom and said, “Everything is going to be okay.” But I can remember the last time I hurt another human being and justified it as an action intended for the good of whole. I called it bravery. I called it courage, but, really, I am just a cur with the mindset of a man who, like every man, simmers with blood lust and an insatiable yen for violence in the face of everything beautiful. 

Late Night Loveless

He’s cool. He’s so fucking cool. And me? I’m ice cold, and my underwear drawer is a parade, even on a rainy day. Which is why he’s asking me what I’m doing at three in the morning on a Tuesday evening. Which is why I’m responding, “At home. U?” (In my neatly affected, broken text-English, which isn’t meant to belie a lack of formal education, more that isn’t there a certain irony in the fact that the girl with the sex blog can’t be bothered to fully spell out the word “you” ? It’s supposed to be off putting, really, and if someone wants to sit there and socially reject me because I refuse to conform to the tyranny of grammar in casual sexts, then I will respond by asking for the definition of “asinine.”) 

While I sit there on my bed, watching TV and gnawing on the end of this drunken night, stripped down to my skivvies and also checking Instagram while I wait for the bright flash of light to indicate his incoming text message. 

“Come over”

Hm. It’s at this point that I have to do the slut math of, “How long is going to take me to put my clothes back on? Call a cab and then spend $8 on showing up at his house so that he can sit there in some sort of stupor and try to bang me? Because he’ll probably be black out drunk, but I’m not, but will he have more beer at his house? Or is this desperate cry for late comforts of the flesh just another shot in the dark? And by the time I take a cab back home at 4:30 am, will the $16 really be worth thirty minutes of pushing rope?”

Carry the two, multiply by three and the answer is equal to…no. So I smile, tuck my phone away and watch the rest of this Simpsons episode while I wait for the pills to kick in and I can float away into something smoother than the arms of another drunken would-be lover. Waking up to another 3 am text message that reads “?” instead of crawling out of some car crash fuck scene that will not leave me feeling satisfied in terms of the number of actualized orgasms I received because, let’s be honest, he was probably too drunk to eat me out anyways.

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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 →