A Woman’s Experience of Lust

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. My hand is so slippery as it slinks through your drawers, seeking flesh, seeking just the smallest amount of flesh, gripping on flesh, fingers around flesh. Flesh that tastes like you. Just like you. And I would like to taste you, so I slip down to the ground so you can bury yourself in me. In my mouth. Your dick in between these luscious red lips, which just moments ago were spitting tomes of poetry about how much I love you, oh baby, but that now are couched so comfortably on your dick. Your pretty fucking dick. And you moan, just like I knew you would. With your dick in my mouth. My lips on your cocks. My hands still fluttering, tugging balls, rubbing ass, while you streak fingers through my hair and you moan. You just keep on moaning, and I keep on sucking. This room is just teeming with pleasure. And you are just throbbing, perched on the edge of the bed, thrusting the back of my head fast on your crotch. Because we could do this forever. Me, leaning in, feeling that point at the back of my throat that your dick keeps slamming into, and you, lost in pleasure, lost from the world, reeling back into pleasure while I hold your hand and take you there. We are sinning in the best way possible, so I look in your eyes right before they role to the back of your head. And I know that you love me. Even if it’s not true, I still know that you love me, because your love is splattering its way all across my face, sticky, and icky, and groaning, and spraying straight in my eye. And my hair. All over my cheeks and these pert, red lips, these scions of cum. I am dirty. You are laughing. There is a snake in my eye, and it is yours, dribbling with spit and the handiwork of a woman who knows what she’s doing.

FUCK.

I looked, and then everything was gone. In a flash. And my heart skipped a beat. Oh, fuck.

I logged into Tumblr just now, and everything was gone. The whole blog. All the queued up posts and the 112 drafts and my likes and my followers and everything was gone. Just like that.

Panic. Yes, panic. Suddenly things stopped, and life had been planned out for me in a certain way, along a certain line. Things that had existed in the past were supposed to go on existing. The things that I had built yesterday were supposed to be there tomorrow, but, then, for some reason, I looked, and *poof* it was gone. The oxygen in my lungs turned sour, and it crossed my mind that: all of this, for nothing. All of this, for no reason. Those furious moments of scribbling away – just, gone. All the hope and the ideas and the dreams of things that I was just dying to tell everyone out there on the Internet – it has vanished.

I had 150 posts in my Tumblr account, and now they’re gone. I’ll never know what they said, or what I was going to do, or what was going to happen. I can think of a few poignant pieces that were lingering in my drafts folder – a few vindictive missives aimed straight into the hearts of certain enemies. A few bitter ditties, some love letters. Maybe it’s best that those things never see the light of your bright computer screen. I wonder if there were beautiful essays, too. If I had any wonderful blog entries. What were they about? What were my missing 150 posts about? There was at least one recent post wherein I lamented blow jobs and how hard it is to suck dick, and that I never really want to suck dick, but I do it anyways because I’m a nice person. That one was weird.

I guess I have no choice but to rebuild from here. I have no choice but to forego Tumblr and keep Fuck Feast running.

Although, there is a pause in the panic as I set out to rebuild my miniature empire of words. I realize, suddenly, that with a clean slate comes change. And with change comes possibility.

Having just celebrated my three year anniversary of Fuck Feast, I realize, should I go a new direction? Or do I keep writing forward in a straight line like I always have? Fuck Feast has always kind of been in shambles. It’s just a word dump with no message, meandering into the ether of the Internet, reposting fun things, being pretty glib. Fuck Feast isn’t serious or taken seriously by anybody, but maybe this is a wake up call of sorts. I was just having a beautiful dream, but now it’s the morning and I have to go to work.

For a moment I thought, what if I stop writing! But, hah, I’ll never stop writing. I write like a sickness. I write despite the fact that no one wants to hear my speak. I write in the face of the adversity of my own social ruin. This will always be.

Fuck Feast will still be. I will keep spewing out sexual crap with faint trappings of feminism and emotion and Oakland. This is just what I do. Of course, I keep on telling myself: zine! Or, book! Or, anything that will turn Fuck Feast into something bigger than itself. It kind of is its own thing, pigeon holed into itself. We’ll see. We’ll see if Fuck Feast can fly beyond this paltry domain name one day.

For now, know that there were 32 posts queued up for reading pleasure (Because I’m crazy, and I write so much that the posts just stack up), so while I’m working on ramping up some more posts, things might not come out as regularly as they used to.

Fuck. I can’t believe my Tumblr account got deleted. That’s fucking crazy. But, life happens, and I have no option other than to move forward like a shark.

Okay. Let’s do this. Start swimming.

The Baseline of Guilt in Daily Sexual Activities

I don’t know about you, but I was raised Catholic, which basically translates into carrying around a vast amount of guilt and shame on my shoulders in regards to pretty much everything I do. It’s something that I’ve learned to cope with over the years, so much so that there is a comfort level to the baseline of guilt that I experience in my sexual activities. Somewhere along the line, the constant comingling of my feelings guilt and shame with my daily sexual activities created a warped sexual psychology in my mind, so much so that the guilt became so interwoven with my sexual activities that it became an integral part of the sexual experience. 

Somehow, guilt has become sexualized for me. Because of this unique sexual phenomenon and my ability to derive sexual gratification from my feelings of guilt, the more guilt that I feel within my sexual activities, the more pleasure I can experience. Which isn’t really a good thing. Because guilt is generally supposed to function on a level that acts as an after effect of bad decisions, a negative feeling that wards one off repeating the same mistake. So when guilt becomes an integral part of the pleasure process, the inclination to repeatedly make bad mistakes in order to garner pleasure from feelings and guilt and shame – well, let’s just say that this is a problematic emotional combination. 

However, I’m not sure how people expect me to cope with my overwhelming feelings of guilt and shame, especially as they are directly related to my sexuality. What can I say – I’m a wantonly sexual person, and seeing as I could never truly dispel those feelings of guilt and shame in a healthy way, my only options were to either rid myself of my sexuality or to normalize my feelings of guilt and shame. I chose the latter because, well, what was I going to do, not fuck people? 

Instead, I function in a paranoid bubble of hypersexualized Catholic Stockholm Syndrome, one where I sympathize with my Catholic captors as to how much of an awful person I am for doing these terrible, sexual things, but I’m also secretly getting off on all of it so…this is how I have managed to do so many grotesque sexual acts without feeling like my self worth has been diminished in any way. Because it hasn’t, but also that nasty after effect that so many people get when they do something bizarre or outre? Yeah, I’m not experiencing that. Oops.

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Sleepless (Guest Post by Mob Moxie)

The hardest part about breaking up, for me at least, has been the adjustment to sleeping alone. I find myself occupied and entertained, during my waking hours, you know, slowly but surely moving on with my life. Even content in a way with this healing process. Then late night hits and the anxiety sets in. Anything past 11pm and I am totally freaking out because I start to realize that I am exhausted from NOT thinking about my ex all day, an that there my very well be no end in sight for me. No sleep on the old dawn horizon, or more perfectly no sleep till the dawn horizon.
I mean it has been two straight weeks of trying everything: Drinking myself into a stupor, moking myself into a comatose state…the list goes on, but you get the gist. I have been trying anything and all things numbing and tiring in hopes of a good night’s sleep. Sadly, it’s not working out for me. I spend all night cold, then eventually hot, I can’t decide which side of the bed to sleep on, the middle of the bed just feels to foreign, every sound scares me, and, worst of all, I can’t stop thinking.

Read more →

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 →

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.”