Interactions With Men

“So&so thinks that you want to fuck him,” he tells me.

“Hah! He would.”

“Well, do you?”

“Um, you know, I just make him think that I want to fuck him. Just to keep it interesting.” I wonder if I’ll regret making that comment later, seeing as that statement could be applied to the friendship I’m cultivating with my friend right now, and also to a lot of other men. Actually, to be honest, I think about fucking pretty much every man I come across. And I wonder what his dick looks like, and how he uses it, and if he’d know how to choke me, or if he’s good at oral sex. These are the kind of things that wonder through my mind on a daily basis, which is why I like being bartender. It’s sensory overload, all these men that I interact with every day. And every single one. Every single, last, disgusting, old, decrepit man – what does his dick look like? 

Although it’s not an impulse that I act on regularly. I can’t imagine what my life would be like if I did. There’s no way that I could fuck every single guy I encounter in my day to day life, but, my god, that would be thrilling. Sure, I’ve fucked enough of them to be able to give myself an approximate mental scenario of what it would be like to fuck any of these guys on any given day. It’s when I meet one whose sexuality eludes the pantheon of my imagination and the history of my sexual experiences that I find myself begging to solve the mystery. Which is a bad thing, really, because I’ve fucked enough of the chicken shit, white bread motherfuckers to know what the average Joe is like in bed. It’s the disgusting ones that elude me nowadays. It’s the broken, decrepit, emotionally shattered ones that entice me. And it’s the thought of, ‘exactly how fucked up are you, and does that translate sexually?’ that gets me into trouble.

So I stand there, and while, yeah, I guess I’m leading this guy on, and I’m leading that other guy on, and I’m leading on a whole host of male Oakland residents, my god. It’s the sick ones that really pique my curiosity. I want to be held in the arms of a man who knows what it’s like to kill another human being, and I want to relish in the tenderness of murder. I want to make a man weep when he comes, not because I’m good at what I do, but because he’s so unwhole on the inside that the tears come out at climax. I want to be the daughter of someone else’s perversion, and I want to break into pieces in the process. 

I am a wild beast, and I am seeking out other wild beasts. 

Porn in the Modern Era

For me and all my peers, the introduction to sexuality via sexually explicit media content was akin to a grade school underground drug ring, where the drug was porn and the high was orgasms. It wasn’t easy back then, secretly snatching dirty magazines from your parent’s stash, or your cousin’s bedroom, or passed underneath school desks in the back of the classroom. Squirreling away those nudie pictures while silently sitting in the bathroom with the door locked and the shower running and that eerie sensation of fear and shame mixed in with some preternatural sexual arousal. It’s an experience that seems to pervade my generation, but, as with pretty much everything nowadays, that experience is changing. 

Because even beyond the vintage Playboy magazines, perusing porn on a dial up connection was likewise risky business. Sneaking to the computer late at night, after parents had gone to bed, purportedly up to still do some homework, but checking out those XXX websites. Which could at any point result in the failure of a frozen computer and mom walking in on the horrible scene. Or the incontrovertible evidence of some porn site computer bug being downloaded to the hard drive during one of those millions of fap sessions. And, of course, there was always the tantalizing agony of waiting for the videos and the images to load, pixellated and barely recognizable as porn, but just pornographic enough to elicit some sort of sexual reaction in your bowels.

But it’s not like that anymore, which begs the question that no one really wants to ask: what happens to American sexuality when the youth is privy to high quality, on demand, fetishistic porn at any moment of the day? It’s anyone’s guess, really, because seeing as we are already steeped in a massively shame-filled culture of sexuality out here in America, will opening our eyes at a younger and younger age to the big titted, pubic hairless, ginormous cock porn be the cure for all that ails us? Or will we, as we always do, continue to spiral into a self loathing culture of secret hypersexuality and the public flagellation of anyone who is naive enough to express a penchant for sexual exploration beyond the traditional man and woman monogamous set up/sham? I can only hope that an unfettered exposure to human sexuality, even in its sometimes monstrous and garbled pornographic version, will help the future generations to better grapple with their sexuality, rather than falling into the trap of traditional American sexual shame. 

And, on that note, I think I’m going to go watch some porn now. 

American Sexuality

The notion of purity is still something that persists to this day. After wading through the Puritanical roots of American society, and the self imposed, self loathing set of virtues that they inflicted upon themselves, here we are today, reveling in the melting pot of a million different religious, political and sexual dogmas that dictate a culture of confused sexuality. Yet, somehow, shame is still the predominant theme today. 

This isn’t just a casual study of the fucking habits of wanton 20-somethings. This is a reflection of the caustic sexual frustration that seems to pervade our culture, as it is being blasted across the Internet through blog posts, as it is being spoken about in bars, and as it is being confided to me by friends.

Because somehow it seems that power in America is deeply divorced from any privilege to indulge one’s self sexually. 

Homegirl

Glistening listlessly in the back of this bar, with her cigarettes and her eyeliner and her inevitable pocket knife poking out of her bag where the stickers and the streakers sneak around. The drink in her hand is the most appealing accessory that’s been thrown into that haphazard outfit, which reeks of an impending trouble and the need to hide in the darkness behind fences. 

All words and all thoughts are processed sharply through a well maintained brain frame that weekly rattles with the predictable prattling of the de rigueur diatribes de jour, mostly on the mainly untepid topics of radicalism, feminism and the beauty of random acts of violence that occur in everyday life. Those words and thoughts, rolling off occasionally from a tongue that’s red with drugs and rapidly, and in a perfect pitch tone of your inner monologue filtered through your Downtown dream girl by way of wasted youth and a lifelong commitment to crime in the name of crime. There’s a terrible word out there for the particular brand of lecherous male gaze that seems to stick to her like magnets, but that one word will rapidly be followed by the things that feminine youth spits out in the unsubtle retribution for mundane misogyny, so let’s leave that out of the conversation and stick to the task at hand. 

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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 →

Best Places to Have Sex in Public While Bar Hopping in Downtown Oakland

Having sex in public is a finely finessed art, and doing it in Oakland (aka the robbery capital of America) is even trickier. Of course, it’s always important to consider that while your pants are down around your ankles and your going at it with one or more other people, are you vulnerable as a victim of a robbery? Yes. Yes, you are. However, on the flipside, you don’t want to get picked up by the cops for indecent exposure (although, shouldn’t the cops be looking for people who are robbing other people instead of penalizing the merry galavanters of Downtown Oakland watering holes?) or become the buzzworthy spectacle of a group of fellow bar flies. So, it is with great aplomb that we would like to share some of our favorite places for having sex in Downtown Oakland while bar hopping. Because it’s way easier to bang in a parking lot than to take home some stranger and deal with kicking them out of your bed at 4 am, and also if you’re still Downtown you can go get a drink after! (And, also, your significant other probably isn’t scouring alleyways, looking for you and evidence of your cheating heart.)

So, here we go, broken down bar by bar, with the closest, most convenient place to have sex:

Ruby Room The library is right across the street. Of course, sometimes people (aka CNN, shout out to CNN) are hosting their anti-Ruby Room parties there, so you could go check out the Lake, although do so with caution. I’m not sure what the new promenade is like at night, but a hobo threatened to pull a gun on my friend for not bumming him a cigarette, so maybe just stick with the library and if it’s busy try elsewhere. Also, the Lake is plagued with joggers, but I’m sure late night joggers are used to that kind of thing. Also, see Radio. Read more →