An End of An Affair

It wasn’t a real relationship, so it wasn’t a real break up. It was merely a falling apart. A bursting at the seams. A riff. A rip in the fabric of casual fucking: one day we were fucking, and the next day we weren’t talking. These kinds of things happen. I’ve weathered it before, and I’ll weather it again. In one moment, the feckless copulation and then – nothing. It’s the small thud of emptiness. Of meaninglessness. Of opening up your legs and seeing nothing there. Checking your phone and finding no new text messages. Going out to bars and seeing no one there. Wandering aimlessly through your own sexual fantasies and finding that you lack the inspiration to give your former sexual partner a starring role in masturbation material. Things have fizzled out, and that’s okay, but it’s also fairly boring. The attraction has waned, and while there’s nothing wrong with that, there’s always that ebbing hope that maybe it could have been more than just a fling that faded to black. All the ‘what if’s of wanting something more than just another dead end fuck feast come nipping at heels, even if the apathy of attraction has muted your once raging desires. It’s not a real break up, it’s just the end of the road with that one particular person. The story is over, and the ending is dull. There are no fights, no nasty text messages. There’s no screaming or hoping or fighting for each other. There’s no hope beyond the ending, no thought of a second chance. There’s just an ending. A short, stubby, fat, hairy, dull, unattractive ending. A queasy punctuation at the end of the sentence. And while it still incites some certain kind of sadness, it’s not the all consuming depression that seems to accompany rejection and heart break. It’s just resounding emptiness. It’s an unexciting sadness, like watching a badly directed drama end on an awkward note. It could have been so much better, but it wasn’t, and now it’s over, so it’s time to move on. But I still feel sickly on the inside, as though there’s a part of me that is still finding a reason to believe that he must want me or love me even in the face of our mutual romantic apathy. It’s the disappointment of knowing we both tried to love each other, but neither of us were brave enough to make it happen. I would like to be brave on day, but today is not that day.

Ex Lovers in Dark Bars

We see each other from across the room, but we look away. We pretend not to see, which is easy, but comical if dissected on a social level. There are forty people standing between me and him right now, and I think that we both like it that way. It’s easier that way. It’s easier to scan the room and scan over the face of someone I used to fuck when there are forty other people worth looking at instead.

We edge closer and closer, mostly because his friends are my friends and my friends are his friends, but not in such a serious way that mandates some sort of perfunctory meet and greet amongst friends. We merely overlap in dark bars like this, and the noise level and the crowd make it easy for us to keep looking away. To keep looking beyond. To pretend not to see. To not acknowledge each other even though in the past in dark rooms that are hot like this but with only the two of us, the things we have done and the things we have said – he has seen me naked. He has seen me cum. But now he doesn’t see me at all, as I sway with this drink in my hand and look for any other attractive man to come to my rescue and sweep me back to some bedroom. Anyone but him, because I am sick of him.

We are getting closer and closer in this dank, dark room, and we are nearing that moment of crisis when we can no longer ignore each other without adamantly ignoring each other. He is talking to my friends. I am dancing with his. Until finally, and this is when we should see each other. Until the moment that comes when we should look at each other and smile. That moment when we should say hello and half heartedly half hug each other. That moment is encroaching, and right when it should happen, right when we should make eye contact – that is when we both turn away. Avoiding forever the collision of his eyes in mine. Avoiding us seeing each other and both knowing. Avoiding the dismal realization that it was never meant to be, but that, also, neither of us wants it anymore anyways. It is mutual, which is a relief, and we wonder away back into the crowd, in separate directions, still pretending not to see.

My friends do not notice, and I say nothing to them as we careen further into this night of drinking and debauchery. No one can tell that I know him, as he wafts back into the crowd, and no one in this room knows that he used to fuck me. No one knows that I know his name, and all about his mother, and what his skin looks like at 8 AM. No one can tell that we both once tried to love each other and failed.

It is over, and that’s okay, because it only takes a few moments for a new one to show up and try his hand at fucking me. I will let him try. I will let him succeed. And I will forget about tonight as quickly as I can.

Combating the Hypersexualization of Snide Comments

I can feel him leering at me from behind, and I know that the underhanded comment is right on the tip of his tongue. Because there I am, traipsing around like I always do in some outfit and high heels. It’s something that I do on a daily basis, and I am inured to the slew of male reactions that being a woman in public elicits.

Although, it’s not so much that I’m inured to the reaction as it is that I am indifferent at this point. Yes, I know I look good. Yes, I know you can see me. Yes, I know that you feel entitled to comment on me and who I am as we walk down the same sidewalk on the way to the grocery store.

“Oh, whoa,” one guy says.

“It’s okay, he view’s not bad!” the other one says as I continue to walk ahead of him.

I don’t flinch. Maybe I’ve lost the ability to flinch, or maybe it’s that I realize that flinching is pointless and a waste of my time. But, in all honesty, I think that I stopped flinching because I knew that me flinching is the point of those kinds of comments.

Men don’t say those kind of off handed things to me because they expect me to turn around and rip my clothes off and hop on their dick. The sexualized comment isn’t an attempt at initiating sexual contact. Instead, these small jabs are intended to intimidate me. No, it’s true, there’s no threat of violence in these small comments, but if we examine these comments within the context of a society that oppresses women’s sexuality, that denies its existence or validity, that shames women for being sexual, then the overt expression of a man’s sexuality in the face of a woman intimidates her because it further impresses a woman’s ignorance of her own sexuality in the presence of a man’s fully formed, fully confident sexuality.

But I am not that woman.

I am completely privy to the whims and woes of my sexuality. I know how it works. I know what I like and what I don’t like. Which is why my reaction a man’s offhanded sexualization of me, walking down the street, isn’t a flinch. Neither is it me screaming at him to leave me alone, which, in the new movement against cat calling, seems to be the reaction of choice.

No. Instead, I make the decision in my mind to either keep walking or to look at whoever is talking about me behind my back. If I am not in the mood for a catty sexual discourse, then I keep it moving. I can’t be lured into engaging with men on the topic of my sexuality or my brief sexualization while walking into the grocery store against my will. They may try to initiate, but I shut it down.

However, on some occasions, I turn around. Sometimes I smile. But mostly I want to look at the man who thinks that he has the right to sexualize my existence without my consent. I want to look at the man who views me as a sexual creature, but not because I’m angry. It’s because I’m curious. I’m curious as to what kind of man approaches a woman like me. A stranger. I look at him, and in a moment, I do the same thing back to him. I look him up and down. I play a two second reel of what it must be like to fuck him, and within those short moments I assess whether or not this man would be an adequate sexual partner. I look at the way he dresses and the way he carries himself. I look at his body. I wonder if he works out, because anyone I fuck has to work out in order to keep up with my sexual stamina. And in that moment I know: the man who talks to women like that probably has a small dick and/or is bad in bed. The man who talks to women like that definitely has no game, because any guy with game knows that’s not the way to pick up chicks.

A man has tried to rob me of my sense of security and self by exploiting my sexuality with the swiftness and brevity of a single sexualized comment. That shit doesn’t work on me. Instead, I see him, and I see a man who has been broken by the patriarchal society which should benefit him, but doesn’t, because he will never be good enough to fuck a woman like me. I am too good for him. I am too pretty for him. I am too smart for him. He would never be able to satisfy my voracious sexual appetite. So I look him in the eyes so that he knows this. I look him in the eyes so that he knows that I am not afraid. This little shenanigan didn’t work.

I look him in the eyes, and then I laugh. And he knows that I am laughing at him. Because he is a fucking joke.

Also, I already know my ass looks good. It always looks good. Thanks.

Page 1 of 31612345...153045...Last »

Anatomy of a Manic Oakland Dream Girl

The concept of the manic pixie dream girl is one that is so played out in popular culture, mostly because she’s a mythical creature, but also, if you live in Oakland, the manic pixie dream girl is a fucking joke. For the most part, the manic pixie dream girl is an irritatingly quirky white girl who pops up at parties and thinks that she’s and/or the center of attention because she’s playing into the trope of the manic pixie dream girl. However, as an Oakland party girl, I figured I’d let you know that we have our own version of the manic pixie dream girl, but it’s skewed through dark wave lens of drug addiction, darkness and having lived your whole life in the ghetto. So, for anyone who’s curious, here’s there anatomy of Oakland’s resident dream girl:

  • The Manic Oakland Dream Girl is born and bred Bay Area. She’s from here, so she gets it. She’s got that drop of ratchet in her blood from her time spent in Oakland, a bit of urbanity from weekends shlepping it in the city, and a very subtle hippie side that comes from cruising through Berkeley when there’s nothing else to do. She speaks the language, dresses the part, and bumps Mac Dre relentlessly at all hours of the day.
  • The Manic Oakland Dream Girl knows where all the good parties are – you know, the ones deep West or out in the East where all the beautiful coke heads go to dance all night -, and she goes to them pretty regularly. She has a drug dealer friend that will hook you up, a flask of Hennessy in her purse, dances like a stripper, and has slept with the DJ, but they’re cool, so don’t trip.

Read more →

Moments in Sex Mania: Summer, 2011

It was hangover o’clock in someone else’s house. I had spent the whole night drinking and drugging, and I had woken up on someone’s folded up futon couch while spooning a random friend of mine. The rest of the room read like a murder scene, too, with two other random friends splayed across half broken arm chairs. It was bright in that stultifying summer hangover kind of way, and I felt sticky in that parched mouth, make up coated skin kind of way. None of the four of us lived in that apartment, but the guy who did live there was camped out in his bedroom with a best friend of mine, presumably fucking away or sleeping at the ripe, bright hour of 10 am, which, for us partiers, is unpleasantly early.

The four of us in the living room were peeling ourselves up off furniture, all hungover but surprisingly coherent and bearable to be around. We pantomimed through the usual rigmarole of hangover complaints: where is my stuff, where did all my drugs go, is there any beer left in any of these eighteen beer cans on the floor, how did I wind up here when my plan was to get three drinks at Radio and go home, did we have sex. 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.

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. Read more →