The Thing About Him Is:

As we sit here in this car, and I’m drunk, and I’m crying, and I’m too cuddled up in my own broken emotions to notice the expression on his face. Too much time has passed. For him, and for me, but he’s older now. And I should be old enough to know the difference, and while I’d like to boil down tonight’s problem into a typical pop psychology analysis of disparate childhood traumas – it’s never that simple. Things are never that easy, and I could sit here and laundry list all the awful things that happened, but you still wouldn’t know. You wouldn’t know until you saw him, but know can ever tell at first glance. How fucking crazy this is. How fucking insane I am to be putting up with this bullshit in the first place. But I always do it. I constantly find myself here, running away from a monster with no name. But it’s his name, isn’t it? The beast I evade. It’s him. Which doesn’t make sense, because I love him, but if I love him, then it doesn’t make sense that I would be running away with such a thumping fear in my heart. Something doesn’t add up here. And he’s crazy, so maybe that’s why I feel this way. Uncontrollable. Rudderless. Lost at sea, and he is the sea and I am a small boat like a dot in an ocean of him. 

He always makes me feel this way. Small, but I’ll always love him. Although that’s not the solution, but at least it’s not the problem, either. The amount and force of my love does absolutely nothing to effect this situation whatsoever, which is something that I am forcing myself to accept. This isn’t an equation that love can topple, and loving him is pointless. He’ll never love me, or, at least, not the way that I want him to love me. He may desire me for a moment, but after that’s gone – then what? We’ve gotten so good at fucking each other, but we’re still so bad at avoiding the things that make us destructive and sadistic whenever the other person enters the room. And I’m not sure if that is because I’m not sure where the truth ends or the lies begin, or if it’s because I’m beginning to suspect that there was no truth in the first place. That all those things he said to me were the same things that he copied and pasted from other similar moments with other similar women into our fleeting fucking and the things that we said to each other directly afterwards. If everything he ever said to me had been a lie, I wouldn’t be surprised. Broken hearted for a moment, but, then again, I don’t think that it would make me love him any less. Although, not that it matters because the love is irrelevant in this situation, and somehow the truth is, too. Because I’m a sucker in somebody else’s eyes, but there must be a point at which the pain becomes the pleasure, and I am getting off on all of this. In a really intense way. I masturbate to the sadness, and I grin at my own chagrin and getting let down, over and over again. 

But he is beautiful, and I want him, and I cannot cut off the part of my heart that is insatiably and animally attracted to him. Like a beast, and me beneath him is where I would like to be, even right now. Even after all of this. After all these years. He is a dog, but I am a bitch, so maybe that will work out for us in the end. Or maybe none of this will work out, and the last time I kissed him was the last time I ever kissed him, as we sat in that car, and I cried, and he said nothing that made me feel better about anything. As I tried to run out of the car and walk back home. Maybe that was it.

Or maybe the formula of our incessant relationship mandates that I fuck other people for a few more months before this happen again, and the sad songs start bursting out of my mouth like shards of some technicolor rainbow. I’ll be dancing on my own grave soon, kiddies.

The Definition of Adulthood

Being an adult isn’t the somnambulating wild dreamscape that I thought it would be. Not the desperate fight to survive, like every adult I encountered in my late teenage years made it out to be, but, then again, adults who hang out with 19 year old girls probably don’t really have their shit together in the first place. Maybe I’ve been blessed with a fierce case of “the right place, at the right time,” because I’m home again. But this time, the hopelessness has somehow dissipated, and rather than constantly pulling myself back from a precipice of impending death and doom, things are going okay. The fever tremors of manic episode have died down, and waking up every day feeling like crying for no real reason doesn’t happen too much anymore. Wondering where will I sleep, or what will I eat – questions that seem to define the human fight for existence in this world – those questions have been answered. I’m okay, just like they said I would be okay one day. And that day is today, but I can’t decide if something inside me has died after working every day for so many god damn years, or if this is just what happens after a series of decisions mull over the passing of time, and then everything is okay. Is everything okay?

Succubus (Feminist)

I stalk him in his sleep, and I see him lying there. Helpless like a lamb, which he would never be in waking hours. But there he is, and here I am, me with these fangs and an acute amount of cunning. The exact amount of cunning that it takes to bear down on sleeping giants and take everything I want from them. Right now. While is blinded by his own weakness, and here I am. Sucking out from him everything that makes him strong. I will take his car. I will take his money. I will take his job. I will take his house. I will give him children, and then take those from him, too. I will take his friends, as my own friends, and his mother. I will take everything about him that gives him self worth. I will take his orgasms, and I will make him hate his own penis. As I sit here in the dark, plotting, and with these claws on my hands and these fangs in my mouth. I will weaken him with his own desire, and then I will rob him of everything he holds dear. For no particular reason, really, although some would say that he has wronged some of us in some way. But why can’t I do this just for sport. Why can’t I break this boy because my own boredom tells me that I can. Why can’t I wreck men for the satisfaction of my pleasure.

So I indulge myself. As I sit at the edge of the bed with my hand on his leg and this deceptively loving look on my face. I am the demon he never saw coming, but, trust me, baby. I am coming. Right at this very moment, with the revelation of his destruction in my mind, and when he wakes up tomorrow, everything will be gone. Except, of course, for the memory of me and the victory I have taken away from him.

Time Is On My Side

I am waiting for time to pass. Because someone once said that time heals all wounds, and this wound, this gaping gash in my heart – I would like to feel nothing until the only thing I can feel is that there is no more wound. That I am better. I would like to self medicate so that time passes seamlessly. So that I can wake up on the other side of three years from now, fully repaired and uninhibited by the stitches that are holding my piecemeal heart together haphazardly. I am floundering here, and I wonder how long it will take this time. How much life will pass me by before I can actively participate in it again? How many opportunities will I have to miss because this broken heart has me pinned between the sheets in my bed, inert and disinterested? How many friends will come and go, and all I want is to be better. To shake this feeling and this sense of emotional disquiet. I would like to get up today and feel like everything is okay, but today is not that day. So I will continue to watch the clock count down until the elusive never when today is the day that things start to hurt a little bit less.

Bicycles Riding Bicycles

Have you ever fallen in love with the village bicycle? I have. Which is ironic, because I might be the village bicycle myself, but this particular missive isn’t about my personal sexual indiscretions. It’s about his, and the humiliation that ensues loving someone like that. Which is perhaps ironic, maybe even hypocritical of me, but let’s just chalk it up to poetic justice. That I’m ashamed to lust after someone who has already fucked all my friends, and when I’m with him out in public, I can feel the judgment being passed upon me. Because I already know that you can’t turn a ho into a housewife, and that a trick will never be triumphant. And while silently I feel like I’m being played this whole time, at the end of the day I am only playing myself. 

I have been cursed, haven’t I? And everything that I said to myself and to my erstwhile lovers, that they shouldn’t be upset that I’ve fucked all their friends because I’m here, right now, with you, and only you – somehow there was a grave miscalculation in my equation in regards to the amount of insecurity that comes with fucking the village bicycle. Regularly, and like it means something. Ah, so I am a hypocrite, but at least I know that there’s no way that I can get him to unfuck half the girls in this town, so I sit here, sipping silently, and I wonder. I wonder how many. Which is a morbid thought to have, and I always told myself that I wasn’t a jealous person. But I had never been bested at my own game, and it’s not that I’m jealous, it’s more that – oh, how can I say this? I’m fully aware of the mindset of someone who sleeps around town, and the pursuit of love is not the endgame of all that, so what am I doing wasting my time. 

So I stand up and walk away because I know that it doesn’t matter to him why I’m leaving. Just that I’m leaving, and he’ll have to find someone else to fuck tonight because I am not the one.

Page 1 of 26512345...153045...Last »

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 →