Miss Manner’s Guide to Politeness and Promiscuity

Sleeping around is pretty fun, but there’s something to be said for respecting the emotions and the egos of your various sexual partners. It might be fun to flaunt your status as the village bicycle, but, as I get older, I’ve come to realize that it’s not really anybody’s business whom I sleep with, and, also, who really gives a fuck? All risk of STD aside (because, let’s be honest, you should really, really be wearing a condom every time), I guess that current sexual partners might want to know who the other ones out there are, but, at the same time, once you’ve built up a high tolerance for jealousy, it doesn’t really matter. Because the fact of the matter is, we are lucky enough to be having sex with each other right now, so what do all the other small details matter? The association of emotion and fornication is a fallacy, yet, in some instances, emotion comes naturally. So, as adults, it’s up to us to check our emotions and our underwear at the door, and we need to realize that sex is an isolated incident. The emotions that we choose to give into after the fact are something that we wholly control, yet, at the same time, anticipating your partners’ emotions in a positive, loving way is essential. So instead of baiting people for jealousy and setting them up for insecurity, give your sexual partners the benefit of common courtesy and respect for their emotions. Not everyone is able to dissociate physical desire from emotional alchemy, therefore it’s important to remember to love the people in your immediate vicinity to the fullest of your capacity, and, then, as soon as they’re gone, you can do whatever you want.

Another Drunken Night in Someone Else’s Couple Land

So I’m sitting at the bar with a large group of friends, and, suddenly, next thing I know: everyone here is a fucking couple. Which suddenly makes me feel nauseous, although, maybe it’s the eighth shot of tequila that is making me feel nauseous and not the dizzying realization that everybody here is awkwardly coupled up. Maybe it’s a sickness induced by the abandonment of all those punk ideals that I thought all of us were still touting, but has old age made us soft? I mean, I’m pretty sure that these are all the friends with whom I used to run around town and scam people. Didn’t we used to compete in the numbers game together? Or, wait, so what’s happened here? Did the principle of free love suddenly become trite? Or is it that there’s a certain amount of comfort in having someone steady to fuck at the end of the night. But comfort is so fucking boring, so I guess I’ll meander away from my group of friends and up to that somewhat attractive looking drunk guy at the end of the bar, because youth fades easy but the wanton, misguided principles of fuck and be free forever dies very hard.

Date Part VII

It’s easy to crumble beneath your own ego. I could tell he thought of himself as attractive, and, even worse, he thought that he had convinced me that he was attractive. As I sat there with my martini glass filled with some yellow liquid that was just going to make me feel sick the next day. Smiling in an unprofound way, because that’s what dates are, aren’t they? He speaks, again, and I remember that my mother told me not to roll my eyes, lest they get stuck that way, but that would have been okay. Because then I wouldn’t have to look at this bullshit right now, which isn’t to say that I’m fetishizing blindness right now, just that there are certain things in life that you wish you hadn’t seen, and his face is one of those things. And the words he’s saying – that, too. I wish I had never heard them. Although, rather than being tucked tightly into my bed with the TV on, maybe it’s better to wish that someone attractive and interesting were sitting across from me, holding me hostage under the pretense of free drinks, smelling slightly of stale cheese and cheap cologne. Why did I wear my nice perfume for this. I smell fine. I put on my Chanel perfume and my Chanel shoes, both of which were acquired for me at a bargain rate but are genuine nonetheless. Although, still too much effort for this date right now, so I eat another cracker and smile convincingly. When will this be over, and I have friends that are prostitutes, and they wouldn’t suffer through this kind of bullshit for anything less than $300. But me? Maybe I’m a fool, because I’ve had two drinks so far, and I’m not nearly drunk enough, and I’m going to go home without even having the guts to ask for cab fare. But, wait, that’s okay, I’m not a prostitute, nor do I aspire to be one. I’m just your average, run of the mill girl with smart phone and a couple online dating profiles and a miraculously heretofore unshattered illusion of the possibility of attraction co-mingling with fornication. Which is laughable, I know, because that’s what got me here in the first place, but, oh well, I guess I’ll continue making the incredibly calculated gesture of only exhaling while he speaks because if I make the mistake of inhaling while he’s exhaling then I’m going to have suppress another face-curdled wince of nose full of bad breath, and, yeesh, what do people eat before they go on dates so that they smell like this? Keep smiling, little girl, keep smiling. Keep drinking, too, because maybe another shot of green chartreuse will completely dismantle your olfactory capabilities, thereby rendering this date slightly more bearable, but, for now, try to buy him a shot of Rumpleminz or something, because, holy shit. Did he eat a dead rat last night or what? This is fucking awful.

My Failed Party Life

My dreams have dried up, or did they never exist. I stay in more than I used to, which means that I field half hearted text messages at ten a.m. when I wake up the next day. The time stamp is from 1:13, as usual. Always on time, from various people, asking what I’m doing or where I am. I wonder how long before they catch up and realize that I am nowhere, doing nothing, and that I am thoroughly content to be here and doing these things. I have burned alcohol like gasoline down my throat. Bitten ravenous into flesh filled with drugs. Dug my nails into coffins, expectorating putrid and vomit in the faces of fuzzy friends. But enough of all that. It’s not that I’m an adult anymore today than yesterday, it’s that being child has become mundane. A routine. Much like doing the same thing day after day after day becomes mundane, or, worse, addiction. I have no time for that. There’s a pursuit of novelty in my veins, and addiction is the opposite of novelty. I have seen novelty gnaw at the arms of otherwise intelligent, attractive people, and gangrene is not beautiful. I don’t like to let my limbs fester in the sunlight, and being poor is so fucking boring. Tomorrow’s parties are exactly like yesterday’s, except the faces have changed, but the people have not. We’re all still the same. Vapid, useless. Philosophically confused. On our way to somewhere else, or nowhere in particular. When people said it was pathetic when I was doing it, I didn’t believe them. Because it was fun. And it felt good. But now? Now that I’m saying it, I believe every word.

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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 →