The Burden of Nostalgia

I think this blog used to be a lot more fun when I was young and carefree and fucked my way through all my problems. But I’m older now, and life is different, and that’s a valid narrative, too. It’s strange to use this blog as a lens through which I can see myself as detached and dysphoric but also subtly changing and maturing through the years. It’s strange to know that my readers can see it, too, if anyone has stuck around for the past almost six years now. Sure, there are people whom I have known for that entire time, but the writing – that’s a different kind of reveal.

Part of me wishes that I could be young and frustrated forever, that I could always hang onto the feeling of the promise of the world laid bare in front of me. But that got tired after a while, and there’s nothing quite like regret to taint one’s perception of one’s own accomplishments (or lack thereof). Decisions are exciting before you make them. Once you’ve decided, they feel a lot more lackluster.

I cope with my problems in much healthier ways now. Sometimes I take my anti-anxiety medication, sometimes I go to therapy. Rarely do I hole up in some dive bar and get black out drunk and fuck the first person who doesn’t seem to mind the trouble. I’ll admit that I’m a bit sad that the stories I have to tell these days are so palpably less glamorous. But, at 30, what does glamour and excitement look like?

Success at my age – and even success in an iconoclastic manner – is, by necessity, more quiet than success at a younger age. Being successful in your 30’s is almost antithetical to what success looks like in your 20’s. Success in your 30’s means that you’ve risen above the fray of what success in your 20’s looks like: fucking antics. If you’re doing it right in your 30’s, you don’t have to submit yourself to the all night party grind that made being in your 20’s fun.

Maybe I’m washed up, but maybe I’m just more about my money these days. I’ve had enough cocaine and dick til 5 am to last me a life time. Now I get to do shit like drink real champagne at 6 pm and tell the people I care about that I love them. It’s strange to know that my tastes and my pleasures have changed.

The mania was unsustainable anyways. I look at the people who joined me for the ride through my 20’s – the friends who scored blow in downtown bathrooms with me, the boys that I fucked in bushes, the people who judged me and told me to get my shit together. Now that I’m in a completely different place in my life, I look at some of those people and see where our paths diverged.


What’s hardest about changing is knowing that not everyone changes with you. Some people get stuck, others shoot off into the ether. All I know is: I started in the same place with so many people, and years later none of us are even close to being on the same page. We were all fundamentally different, but for a moment in time we were all together.  It’s hard to leave people in the dust. It’s hard to be left in the dust.

I will always be me, but time is a fucking bitch. The world around me changes rapidly, and I have no choice but to adapt or fester. I choose to adapt. I will always love myself, but as time goes on, I love the world around me less and less.

Craigslist Missed Connections #TBT

When I was younger, and before I started this blog, I was fascinated with the Craigslist Missed Connections. I used to post there at least once a week when I was 23. Nothing specific, mostly just musings, and the point wasn’t to hook up with random strangers. It was mostly just to serve as a creative outlet where I could talk into the ether about my sex life and receive incoming emails from likewise stranded, horny anons on the Internet. It was actually pretty fun.

I was cleaning out my email when I stumbled upon one (and only one!) link to an original post that I wrote seven years ago. I was a disenfranchised 23 year old at the time, and most of the emails in my inbox from that time are CLMCs and also so many fucking job applications. It’s almost strange to see that incarnation of myself from seven years ago – lonely, broke, desperate for a job and dick. Things are slightly different now. But not by much.

A little bit of context on this post: it was a response to a post called “Mission Girls” that gravely disparaged women in the Mission. Also this was in 2011 when the Mission was entirely different from what it is today. Geez, what a world of difference seven years makes on both a personal and metropolitan-infrastructural level. The boys I’m bashing in this post barely even exist anymore.

So, without further ado, your daily dose of nostalgia:


 mission boys – w4m (mission district)

i have lived here for a year now and come to the solemn conclusion that all of you are vapid, carbon-copy replicants of each other. i would try dating someone who lives in my neighborhood, but you all either:

1. are obsessed with feigned nostalgia for a decade you didn’t live through (i’m looking at you neon 80s and neo-grunge rockers).

2. have no concept of taste — ‘taste’, for you, is something you merely inherit through reading blogs and trends, not the ability to discern quality. this is, i think, the most parsimonious explanation of how thee oh sees, an overwhelmingly mediocre band, ever got popular. or girls.

3. blindly fetishize everything “street.” i think this is in perfectly ironic parallel with poor people… who love bourgeoisie things like money, iPhones, cocaine, etc.

4. can only achieve sexual pleasure through degrading other people. look, i’m happy if you want to call me a slut, pull my hair and slap me in the face while fucking SOMETIMES. i’d like a self-respecting, less violent fuck periodically. (this is why you have more one night stands than relationships and why you only end up in relationships with bitches, in case you were wondering.)

5. love the smiths, the misfits and will try to get me to listen to “Blonde on Blonde”, like 20 other boys i’ve met with the same shitty taste in music as you…

6. move to this city and then hate on everything about it because you utterly lack social skills, the ability to value people on a personal level and act like you’re better than the people you’ve voluntarily chosen to live among. Get a personality or GTFOH. doesn’t really seem like you’re contributing to society. whatsoever. is it because your mother told you you were special and you were the idiot who believed her? or because she didn’t tell you you were special & now you’re overcompensating?

you’re like the homogenized counter-culture alternative to bros… except, you know, they have yuppy corporate marketing jobs and probably finished college, instead of aimlessly drifting through their 20’s without any prospect of a career or acquiring any tangible skills beyond skateboarding, shitty graffiti and making itunes playlists.


A Metaphor for Ecstasy

This is an announcement. I am no longer a snake in the grass. I am the flames engulfing your fucking house. I have come here, in the dead of night, with violence on my mind. I knew you were sleeping, and all the meanwhile I was creeping through your front door, down your hallway, into the bedroom where you feel peaceful at night, snaking up the leg of your bed, wrapping my hand around your throat. I am choking you. To death. With purpose.

The whole city is watching. The neighbors are awake. They are standing in the front yard. The news is here. Your family knows. You’re making headlines while we are watching you dying.

Me? I’m standing outside your house with a smile on my face, drinking this delicious glass of tea.

You? You’re going down.

Sex Panic

I read a couple things online that claim the #metoo movement is leading to a Sex Panic. Apart from noting that Sex Panic would make a terrific all female, riot grrrl punk band, I found this observation to be a bit trite.

I have written earlier that the #metoo movement is spurring a kind of cultural depression. These revelations are nauseating, disheartening, and shocking. Of course people are going to be sad to learn that their favorite chefs, comedians and movie makers were diddling women (and, let’s be honest, this isn’t even the worst of it) without consent. As someone who has suffered from depression, let me tell you: no, being depressed is not very sexy and it in fact lowers the libido.

A wave of cultural depression is not the equivalent of a sex panic. By using the term “sex panic,” detractors of the #metoo movement are saying that they fear that this movement will lead to a very Christian, “Handmaiden’s Tale”-esque rite of sexuality. (I read that on a comment thread on Facebook last week. Which is why I deleted Facebook for a month.) A cultural pause of sexual frivolity is not the same on a cultural shift to the modes and expression of sex.

The #metoo movement is in fact not a sex negative movement. It’s not being lead by feminists whose ultimate goal is to eliminate, regulate or socially stigmatize healthy sexuality.

I know this because me and my friends are down with the #metoo movement, which, sure, the movement has its flaws. But if you know me and my friends, you know we are not the prudes that everyone thinks we are – we’re a bunch of sexually liberated, young women; some of us are sex workers, some of us are trans people, some of us are kinksters, some of us are into traditional relationships, some of us are down for polyamory, all of us want our power back. Really, it’s ironic that people are accusing this movement of being sex negative. I was called a slut as recently as last month. And this month I’m participating in something that polices overall cultural sexuality? Jesus, make up your mind, Internet. Am I slut who wants to fuck everyone or am I trying to castrate every man I know?

Glaring inconsistencies aside, it’s worth noting that the #metoo movement isn’t about policing sexuality. It’s about dismantling the toxic power dynamic that currently has a choke hold over our society’s approach to and experience of sex.

When I see people online complaining that the #metoo movement is igniting a sex panic, all I can really think is: if you’re worried about getting laid now that rapists and creeps are getting called out, is it because the only way you could get laid was by raping and creeping on people? Yuck. This made me realize: people who think that the #metoo movement is going to cause a sex panic are probably just the same boring, basic people who think that women don’t have orgasms, or that women don’t like sex, or that you have to get a woman to say no three times to prove that she really means it. These are the guys (and pardon the heteronormative language here, I’m just using it to illustrate the common power dynamic) that have zero game, who have to get a woman incoherently drunk before they can fuck, and who no one wanted to fuck in the first place.

Hm. Maybe they should be panicked. A fair and equitable sexual landscape would mean that they would be consistently rejected and unable to resort to things like assaulting people in order to get laid.

I say: let them panic. Today is the day they find out that no one wants to fuck them. You know what that means – time to start paying sex workers the money they are due in order to scratch your itches. Stop putting the burden of getting laid on women who have no interest in fucking for free. If you want to get laid, cough up that money. And tip her, too, okay?

Facebook Vacation

Part of my new year’s resolution was take a month off of Facebook. It’s already working great! I’ve been writing up a storm, which feels phenomenal, and I’m less depressed because I don’t feel like I’m drowning in other people’s opinion of the world and, by extension, me.

The extra amount that I’ve started writing is actually pretty startling. I realize that when I started this blog five and a half years ago, Facebook wasn’t what it is today. The algorithms were different and they hadn’t used science to make us addicted to other people’s boring ass status updates. I mean, let’s be honest – Facebook is pretty fucking dry, but if you’re in any way socially or professionally indebted to the set up of our capitalist system, it feels very necessary. Which is so annoying.

Now that I’m not on Facebook and I find myself more inclined to write, I realize: I have been using most of my writing skills to talk shit on the Internet. I am disappointed in myself. Mostly because I don’t need Facebook to talk shit on the Internet. I started this blog because I had so much shit to say, I couldn’t be contained by a platform as simplistic and short sighted as Facebook. But now I realize that Facebook has started to contain me and all my rambling, incessant, incoherent, unpopular opinions. Shame on me.

Oh, and I felt so addicted to Facebook, too. Just always looking for something else to comment on or more drama. I mean, fuck, yeah, I love drama! But let’s take this drama to the streets and see who can really fight, okay? But I was addicted to Facebook in a way that was just…uncool. For example, now that I’m single again, I’ve decided that I need a new hobby. I realize that perhaps Facebook was my hobby, and now that I don’t have Facebook I can legitimately start getting into new hobbies.

I’m sure I’ll wean myself back onto Facebook eventually, but, right now, it feels great. Everyone has an Internet persona, but I get to be me, fully me, on my website, saying whatever I want, screaming into a vacuum, making myself laugh, and not having to deal with any real world consequences for what I say. This is exactly how I like it. No one interrupts me or corrects me. I just idle here, feeling cozy among the keys. Life is good.

Cat Calling Back

I was walking down the street the other day when, as usual, some guy shouted out, “Hey, you’re beautiful!” This isn’t an uncommon experience in these parts. But, I, feeling bolder than usual, shouted back, “Hey, you’re beautiful, too!” He laughed as I walked into the liquor store.

When I came out, there he was again. I could tell he wanted to talk to me, which, of course, I braced myself for. Dudes on the street love it when you sass them back, and sometimes that’s an invitation for more conversation. But I was pleasantly surprised when he said, “Hey, it made my day when you told me I was beautiful. Say it again!”

“You’re beautiful!” I cried out as I walked past him. I think we both smiled in our own way.

I wish it were that simple. Wouldn’t that be nice – what if men approached women because all they wanted was validation, and if you gave it to them with as little effort as possible, that would make them happy? I would go around telling men they’re beautiful all day if it meant that I wouldn’t have to worry about things such as, oh, you know, getting my ass grabbed, being followed around, getting hit on in a gross way by my boss, getting equal pay, not being afraid of being roofied at the bar.

Men, is that what you want? Because I will give it to you. In fact, I’ll do it right now. You are beautiful. Did that solve everything for you? Are you feeling better now? Can you stop harassing me and focus on building your own internal strength and having self respect? Please?

Of course, later that day, some guy said what’s up to me, and I, feeling optimistic about my general relationship with the men of the world, did the “what’s up” back to him. As I was walking past him, he said, “Hey, what’s your name?”

This immediately soured me to the entire idea of men being inherently good and in need of simple validation, so I had to sass back with my usual, “I don’t have a name.” That one always confuses them. I’ve actually gotten into pretty long conversations with men after I drop that line. I always have to explain to them that my parents forgot to give me a name. It’s pretty fucking funny.

So, if I can’t cure street harassment by complimenting men back, I guess all I can do is attempt to humiliate them in public. What a sport.

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He’s Cumming

“Oh my god, I’m cumming!”

He whips out his dick and I look over in glee as, dick in hand, there it goes, squirting out, and now there’s come everywhere. I was kinda hoping he would cum inside me, but I think he’s dealt with too many pregnancies and abortions to fall for that one ever again, although, hey, I’m on the best birth control on the world. Maybe I should tell him. But now isn’t the time for that, as we’re lying there naked and both covered in cum and sweat. The sheets on my bed are slightly slipping off. The pillows are strewn across the floor. It’s like a stunned silence, this moment of afterglow. The sun breaking in from behind the curtains. Both of us lying there, too fucked to move, although I tell him there’s a towel over there, although should I stand up and hand it to him? I don’t feel like standing up. Not after all that fucking. Not after he made me cum like that and the delight of his dick inside me still has me reeling and nailed to the bed.

I don’t know if I should look at him or if I’m supposed to look away. I feel like a greedy child as my eyes graze over his thighs and his cock and the hair on his chest. I’m too afraid to look into his eyes and see what’s in there, so I lean for a little bit and kisses on neck. God, I love to watch him cum. I love to look at him right after he’s done cumming. I like the noises he makes, the things he says. I like feeling his body between my legs as slightly he loses it and succumbs to the sensation of cumming. And cumming. Sometimes I almost want to laugh when he cums, because there’s something inherently funny about cumming. The noises and the motions of cumming – it’s not very serious, but I know if I laugh it might be perceived as ridicule. But, really, I laugh because I’m enjoying every moment of everything that is happening, and I’m thrilled by his dick as he squirts out cum. The beautiful cum. I made him cum. I love making him cum.

God, I would do anything to make him cum. I would make him cum all day, every day, if only he gave me the chance. I would bend over backward just to make him cum, and sometimes I do. I would crawl through dirt with half the produce section rammed up my ass if it would only make him cum. I want him to be cumming forever, here, with me, or at least fucking as furiously as we possibly can. I find a slice of my self worth in his orgasms (and also mine), and I would do anything to make him cum because I know he would do anything to make me cum, too. But enough about me, because isn’t this blog about how much I like to cum all the time? And what about him, the one who makes me cum? The one who makes me cum like crazy whenever I want? I wish that there were some way I could repay him for all the orgasms he has given me, so kindly and so patiently. I know that I will never be able to make him cum as much as he makes me cum, and I guess that is okay, because there are so many men before him (and after, too) who didn’t care nearly as much about my orgasm as he did. It was not nearly as much fun to make those men cum. It is not fun to watch a man cum, after all the work, especially if you know that your own orgasm will never be arriving any time soon. But him? He makes me cum all the time, and all I want is to do the same for him. I want to lie here forever, naked and heaving, covered in his cum and satisfied by knowing that I’m his baby and I make him cum the best out of all the rest of them, ever. If only dreams come true. One day…

When Does Sex End?

Does sex end when the guy cums? Or when the girl taps out? When do we stop fucking? I can never tell, personally, because no matter how much my body might be hurting or shutting down or dried up and desiccated, there’s something in my mind that screams, “Keep going!” Perhaps because I know that this moment will end eventually, but isn’t this everything that I have been working towards all week? Haven’t I wanted, above all other things, to be close to someone else? In the most carnal way possible. We need to keep fucking right now as an act of desperation in order to transcend our skin and our bones, and maybe if we fuck long enough and hard enough, one day we will wake up and we will no longer be separate, but we will have finally become two people in one body. Connected. Not forever, but for as long as it’s pleasant, and cumming is not symbolic of the end of everything that I am trying to achieve here. Cumming is something that I can do over and over again. I go to the gym and work out every day so that when the moment comes for me to take off my clothes and dive in, I will be awake and ready and able to fuck for as long as we need. Until we can fuck no longer. Until I can’t keep my eyes open. Until it is impossible to do this anymore. When my body is wreck and your dick is falling off. Until I can’t possibly cum one more time. Sex ends in a moment of failure, realizing that we are separate now, and we will always be separate, so we might as well sleep it off before we get up and drift apart tomorrow morning (or afternoon). Because sex doesn’t end after one person’s one orgasm, or even if he can’t get it up, or if I’m tired. Sex ends when I no longer want to be close to you, or I can no longer be close to you. Although, if I had my way, sex would never end, and we would be here forever, cycling in and out of fucking and sleeping and eating while the rest of the world melts away. I would like that. Wouldn’t you like that? To fuck me forever? I’ll call it true love, but all you have to do is call me back and come over tomorrow night. It will be wonderful. Forever.

The Fuck Feast Sexual Literacy Test

And, speaking of call backs and sexual literacy tests, here’s a list of things that I expect a man to ace on the first hook up:

  • Mastery of Attraction So, this is everything that happens before we get into the bedroom. A mastery of attraction means that you have a rudimentary understanding of the female ego, interpersonal communication and lust. A little bit of flattery, well responded to text messages, and flirtation. This is also the mastery of being attractive, so, y’know, take a shower and put on some nice shoes, okay?
  • Ability to get it up This is crucial. Look, if you can’t get it up, that’s fine. You overindulged. Or you’re nervous. Or you’re just no that into this. That’s fine. However, if you can’t get it up, why did you wheedle your way into my bedroom? Why are my clothes off if you can’t perform? I understand that we all can’t be perfect all the time, but being able to get an erection is crucial to fucking, and if you can’t do that, then you’re just not ready for this, honey, and you’re wasting my time. It’s back to the friend zone for you. Unless, of course, you make up for it with copious amounts of oral sex. That’s cool.
  • Oral Sex To be specific, cunnilingus. This is so day one. If you don’t eat pussy, then get the fuck away from me. If you don’t eat pussy, I can’t imagine what else it is that you won’t do. Eating pussy is the most basic move in the book, and if you don’t have this mastered, then who are you and what are you doing with your life?

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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.