This is cool, but, also: it’s okay to subvert traditional…

This is cool, but, also: it’s okay to subvert traditional gender roles as touted by Glamour magazine and text him first. Nowhere in the Bible does it say that if you text first, you’re a needy, pathetic bitch. In fact, I’m pretty sure that it makes you a self confident, self assured young woman who knows what she wants and knows how to get it, too. Of course, as with all things, there’s a chance he won’t text back, but, hey, learning how to handle rejection is one of those things that adults learn how to handle, but that Glamour doesn’t really write insightful articles about. Regardless, this is a fun flow chart, so no one’s going to knock you for losing five minutes of your day to tracing your theoretical text timeline as according to Glamour. Dig in, girlies.


I told him that I recently got out of an abusive relationship, and he looked at me like he could save me. Like he could take me and hold me and stop all the hurt. Which makes me laugh a little bit, because I barely know him and if “sad and vulnerable” is the thing that spurs this false sense of chivalry in him, then he is not ready for the hurricane of crazy that is about to come spinning out of my sad, sorry, totally rejected little heart. But we’ll get to that later.

For now, it’s just him and he is so ready to hear my sob story. As he optimistically buys me more drinks, and I sit there beneath my little rain cloud of sex-imbued sorrow. As he listens to my troubles about some other, distant man, and all the mean things that the ex ever did to me. I can see it, as he hears me, and it’s not my story that he’s listening to, but his own self lauding refrain of, “I can be better than your ex” that he is singing to himself in his head. He already sees it. How he can save me. From the pain that is rocketing around my shattered little heart. I can see him, picking up my shards of heart and carefully putting it back together. I can see that he thinks he can mend me, as I sit soggy in my puddle of tears. But he is wrong.

Because he doesn’t know me, and he doesn’t know what happened. He’ll never really know what happened, because it’s me telling it. And it’s not that I’m a liar, but I am constantly and conveniently editing out the gory details of my own misdeeds. He thinks he can love me. Hah! He is no better than the last man. He isn’t stronger or braver or more handsome. He’s just a man with a wallet full of money that I know how to spend on the medicine for my broken heart. He is a shoulder to cry on, and after I am done crying, I will dispose him like I would dispose of the tissues that I would have cried into if he hadn’t been there. And I will feel exactly the same.

He thinks he can save me, but he is replaceable. He is a distraction that I turn on when I want to stop thinking about my ex, but I never want to stop thinking about my ex. I still love my ex, and that’s why I’m sitting at this bar crying to a man whom I have no intention of fucking, but I seem so weak and so vulnerable, don’t I? Which is why this man is sitting here, listening to me moan, because this is his moment, isn’t it? That’s what they say, right? Me with my broken heart – now is your chance to get laid by a newly single girl who in sadness and desperation will stumble into sex with you right now! That’s why he’s here, isn’t it? I can’t be bothered with the illogic of the kindness of human souls who take pity on people in weak moments. That’s not what it is. Because it could never be that. Because as soon as I’m done crying and as soon as I’m feeling drunk enough, I’ll be careening straight back into my ex’s arms as soon as I can, and this other man? He will be a forgotten blip on the radar whose moment has passed while I gyrate beneath the hips of another bad decision.

e[lust] #65

Welcome to Elust #65 -

The only place where the smartest and hottest sex bloggers are featured under one roof every month. Whether you’re looking for sex journalism, erotic writing, relationship advice or kinky discussions it’ll be here at Elust. Want to be included in Elust #66? Start with the rules, come back January 1st to submit something and subscribe to the RSS feed for updates!

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~ This Month’s Top Three Posts ~

“Does this look sexual to you?”
Submission Can Be Hard
You can have a secret sex blog and be ethical

~ Featured Post (Molly’s Picks) ~

On Writing and Self Doubt

Online porn: the canary in the coalmine

~ Readers Choice from Sexbytes ~

*You really should consider adding your popular posts here too*

The Pendulum: Why Americans Should Care that British Porn is Fucked

All blogs that have a submission in this edition must re-post this digest from tip-to-toe on their blogs within 7 days. Re-posting the photo is optional and the use of the “read more…” tag is allowable after this point. Thank you, and enjoy!

Erotic Fiction

Dark Desires
This Is How You Use Her
“Office Santa”—A Free Story for the Holidays!
Justin’s Rope
Santa Sutra & the Rebellious Rein-Girl
I Want You, My Way
Caught In The Act
The Smile

Sex News, Opinion, Interviews, Politics & Humor

Feminist Rape
The Sex I Like
Post-Revolution Kink: What kinds of kink?
Why MakeLoveNotPorn Has It Wrong


I Do It My Way

Erotic Non-Fiction

Slave Olive’s Ongoing Chastity Experience
Coast to Coast Traveling Panties.
My Headshaving – During
Tell me…..(want versus need)
flip fucking a punk boy but good

Thoughts & Advice on Sex & Relationships

To Avoid Street Harassment, Dress Slutty!
“You’re not a Domme, you’re a hooker”
We Don’t Do That: On Vulnerability
He suspects something’s up…
Aust Sex Survey: Triumph, Trouble & Tragedy
Erections, Erections, Erections
Am I queer enough for you?


Quandary – A Lusty Limerick

Writing About Writing

A Sticky Vocabulary Situation

Thoughts & Advice on Kink & Fetish

Tickling, consent violations, and violence
A Few Things I Wish I’d Known About Sex, Dati

First Dates

I like the anticipation. And the awkwardness. Those lulling moments of forced conversations as we sit here together with the drinks in hand and silently wonder, “How did I get here? Why did I agree to do this? With this person? Why am I giving this person my time, when I could be sitting at home reading Vice and eating bon bons?” First dates are litmus test for ‘how long can you go without checking while talking to a stranger.’ The answer is usually pretty low when it comes to the exact number of minutes, but that’s okay because sometimes roommates or best friends or booty calls have to be contacted in the middle of a first date while crouched in the bathroom and free drunk on someone else’s dime. 

Although sometimes it’s not always a search and destroy kamikaze mission for one night stands. Sometimes there’s chemistry, and isn’t that we’re here in the first place? Because there was a potential for something more than just another night at another bar with another first date? Because there was a moment where the future unfolded, and the future was beautiful with this other, new person? Chemistry that is galvanized by the exchange of witticisms at the bar or online, or a conversation at the party of a mutual friend. A brief exchange on the bus. An encounter in line at T-Mobile, or anything else that brings two unknowns into social contact with each other. And, then: the spark. The idea. A notion of something more beyond this little moment. The sudden inspiration to see what else lurks beneath the surface when the skin is peeled back and something truer comes out.

I like that. Those moments before any fights can ever break out. Before broken hearts. Before the disappointment and the unreached orgasm and the unreturned phone calls. I like feeling like you want me and the unknowable future that I might have a starring role in, with you. I like the way you look at me, like I might be the queen of something grand in years to come. Before all my dirty little secrets spill out of my purse and pour onto the floor for you to gander and judge. Before you know me for the demon I am, and I like that you look at me like I might be an angel. Like I might be your angel. I like this first date. And the eagerness that comes along with it, every single time. The proper manners and the effort that goes into saying the right thing at the right time. That’s something that fades after months and after years of dating the same person. There’s no need to impress once you’re six months in, because you’ve already got it, don’t you? But not on first dates. First dates – that’s your time to shine. it’s your time to pursue something you desire. Go for the gold. Be the best that you can be, and in that way you will make me love you. 

Make me love you.

Do everything you can to ensure that I will be absolutely, head over heels in love with you. Start right now, and in six weeks – who knows? I have inside me both the rash capacity to get drunk and hoof it to Reno to get eloped, and I also possess the tenacity the tough it out for years before you buy me a diamond ring and we get married with a party in front of all our friends. I could be either of those for you right now, but only because I am neither, nor will I ever be, not if this first date doesn’t go right. So, get it right. Knock it out of the ball park. Knock my socks off. Blow me away with this first date, because I sure as fuck am trying my hardest to get from the harrowing right now into the distant future, and you might still be at my side ten years from now. But I won’t know if you’ll stick around for ten years until ten years from now, so let’s kick off these ten years right now. And just see what happens.

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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. Not because of anything he says, and not because of anything he does. And who even knows if he’s even vaguely interested in sleeping with me. He surely doesn’t feel these flames of passion like the lighter flash to the wick of some pipe bomb. He likes, me sure, but it’s not like this for him. This is a one sided thing, this unhinging sensation of desire. And I am crumbling on the inside because of it. I am falling apart, great big chunks of hair are clumping out, my fingernails are broken and my eyes are puffy. I look terrible because of him, but his dick is my drug and I am addicted. I am constantly fiending. I am running around like an idiot, looking for him. Where is he. And how can I get him to love me. Even though he will ruin me – he has ruined me before, and he will do it again, not out of malice or bitterness but because that’s what he does. That’s how the world works. This is how things are, the way they will be: he ruins me. Constantly. And I let him do it, too. Because this is my sexually compulsive behavior. He is my vice. He is the blade of the knife that I am driving into my own back, but it’s him, isn’t it. It’s the moments when we’re lying naked on top of the sheets, and his sweat and my sweat on my lips. When he holds me like it means something to him – like it means anything to him at all! And I believe like a fool, like that orgasm he just gave me was the greatest gift a man could give a woman. Greater than diamonds. Greater than love. Greater than the two of us, and it felt so much like love. I believe it so much. And him? I don’t even know if he’s aware that love exists, but I go for it anyways. So that I can feel satiated in this small moments, with his arm on my hand and the soft words that he mutters carry so much weight. They mean nothing to him, but my heart is rapid as he says those soft things. I am believing them, like a fool, and he is the false prophet of my romantic disillusionment, and I am completely okay with that. I am holding on to him for right now, until he flutters out the door and I am left desperate and broken and embarrassed in this wretched city without him. I am a childless mother, and it is because of him. But that’s okay because I love him.

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.”