Does Feminism Get You Laid?

I can tell that he’s kind of afraid of me, just based on the way that he pulled back when my leg grazed his under the bar. As though he didn’t want to touch me too much or violate my boundaries, despite the fact that I was the one who leaned in lustfully. This is getting irritating. So I sit there and sip my drink, and then I let him buy another round, and I wait for the cues to come dripping in. But they don’t. Fuck.

I’m waiting for him to put his hand on my leg. To reach out and touch me. Just a hand on the skin on my arm, or curled up around my face. Anything. Any sort of touch right now. Anything to catapult us from the mundane, lonely existence of sitting untouchingly on bar stools in some bar in Downtown to something more exquisite, like the promise of a kiss to come at some point later. But he doesn’t. He doesn’t do that. He doesn’t grab me. He doesn’t tell me I’m beautiful. Instead, we sit here and engage in casual conversation. Intelligent, yes, we’re both intelligent, but I’m becoming concerned by the lack of sexual chemistry. Or, it’s not a lack of sexual chemistry, really, as it is an overbearing timidity in the physical department of this burgeoning – um, relationship? Friendship? At this point I don’t know, because I thought that the context of us hanging out was in some way sexual, perhaps romantic, but definitely not platonic. So I sit there and sip my drink.

What is it. I mean, I know what it is. I know why he hasn’t reached out and touched me yet. As he drinks more, too, and it’s not that he isn’t drunk enough. Or that he doesn’t have the courage. I wonder if maybe I should do something overtly sexual, even something tacky, like opening my legs and leaning in too close. Something flirtatiously oral fixation-oriented, like grabbing his fingers and sticking them in my mouth. Maybe I should make the first move – but, of course, the problem here is that I don’t want to make the first move. I want to be touched today, not touching other people. I want to be desired right now, and there’s a giant wall of feminism standing between me and this man right here. A giant wall of “respect my boundaries” and “don’t make her feel uncomfortable” and “forcing sex on a woman is bad.” Which is all good and dandy, but I don’t really have any boundaries right now. I wouldn’t be uncomfortable. The sex wouldn’t be forced. 

I don’t know how I’m going to communicate this to him. I don’t have a lot of time left. But I can tell that he’s afraid of something, and that something is me. As I sit here with my lipstick and my fur coat and my funny things I say and my pretty face and what about that isn’t utterly fuckable. Damn it. I think I have to reassess my approach to this one. Being intimidating never really gets me laid, and there’s something so unsexy about conversations about feminism on the first date. There’s something so unsexual about feminism in general sometimes, and I would like to run away from these convenient conversations and start talking about something more raunchy. More appealing. More satisfactory for my carnal appetites, even if I have to compromise the feminist agenda to get there. Feminism is not getting me laid right now, so it’s time for a different approach. Maybe talking about sex positive feminism is the right route, or maybe pointing out that there are feminists out there that love to fuck men all the time, constantly. Maybe that will work for me. 

But I’m running out of time, so I guess I’ll stick to these dry conversations about things that are not leading directly to me fucking him. For now.

Notes On A Sex Binge

It’s not entirely unlike a drug binge, in that all impulses are indulged. All hunger is fulfilled. All thirst is slaked, with that organ between my leg just aching for more. All the time. And it’s more than just a sex thing. It’s more than just fucking. There’s a neurological response that rockets attention and validation through the back of my brain as something equally fulfilling, and the pursuit therein becomes equally ravenous and insatiable. Touch me. I would like for every single person in this room to touch me. I would like to look at every man as he walks down the street and have him his lick his lips. With thoughts of me, because I am licking my lips, too, as he struts on by. Please call me ‘baby girl.’ I am the one woman who will not mind. 

Every Time You Buy Cocaine in Downtown Oakland, You Contribute to Local Unemployment Statistics

“I’ve never worked a day in my life.”

I look at him sideways, mostly because that isn’t the kind of sentence that one hears nowadays in the Bay Area.


“Yeah,” he says, sitting on my bed, sipping on my bottle of Hennessy. “Why work for other people?”

“Damn, yeah…good point,” I say, feeling kind of sheepish in that moment, mostly because I’m pulling on my pants, getting ready for work. And somehow I feel ridiculous, as he’s lying there, drinking my Hennessy and watching me get dressed. “I guess I just like buying shit. That’s why I work.”

“I’m not poor. I still buy the shit I want,” he says proudly, and with every word he utters I’m starting to feel like more of a sucker. I’m starting to feel like maybe I should stop putting my clothes on. Maybe I shouldn’t go to work. Maybe I should quit my job and kick it for life. Here, with him, and we could just fuck all day, couldn’t we?

“Really? Where do you get your money from?” I ask naively. It’s something that just comes out of my mouth, even though I already know the answer.

“Sell coke,” he says matter of factly.

“Oh…” I knew that. 

“You know I spent $150,000 on hookers and blow last year?” he says whimsically.


“Yeah. I fly to Miami every once in a while, and the ladies at the Versace store out there fucking love me. I can’t say no to buying new Versace shit.”

“Oh…” This conversation isn’t really going where I want it to. As I lace up my shoes and look at him lying there. And I know that as soon as he gets up and we part ways, he’s going to evanesce back into the ether of this lovely Oakland afternoon. While I ride my bike to work so that I can afford to buy night creams and premade salads, he’ll be sitting in some bedroom in West Oakland, drinking, playing video games or getting his dick sucked. While I, this bright, valiant, shining citizen of Oakland, California, do the moral thing and earn my money the decent way. 

“The only thing is, I’m kind of a dick to my friends when I have money. Like, I’ll just treat them like shit because I’m buying everything for them, so they have to do what I say. It kinda sucks.”

I sigh and try to stem these feeling of jealousy in my stomach. Mostly because, what am I going to do, be jealous of a coke dealer? Someone whose sole ambition in life is to buy cocaine from one person, put it in a box and then ship it to someone else? After which, he spends his free time developing drug habits and paying women to fuck him. But – I just fucked him, which makes me feel weird, not because I hate tricks, but more because I’m beginning to realize that it doesn’t really matter. Or, that I don’t really matter. 

But, back to my original point. Namely, if this guy has made it through 27 years on this planet without ever once filing his taxes or going to a job interview or getting yelled at by a boss – then what the fuck am I doing with my life? I mean, yeah, what the fuck am I doing sleeping with this guy, but what I’m really asking is: how can I quit my job and play video games and drink Hennessy from noon til night and go on shopping sprees at Versace without actually ever having to do any real work? Unfortunately, the answer to that question is a lot more harrowing than I’d like it to be, and it involves growing up in the ghetto and getting grandfathered into crime in a fairly disturbing way. There’s really no way that I can turn back time and be twelve years old, robbing people with a sawed off shot gun. My father will never be an OG crack dealer who taught me how to slang drugs. And I guess I don’t want that either, but I would like to figure out a way to make money without doing shit. 

We walk outside, and I grab my bike. We part ways, but right before he turns to leave, he grabs me and kisses me in the bright morning light. 

“Call me,” I say as I hop on my bike.

“Okay,” he says. 

I turn and leave, and I wonder what he’ll be doing for the rest of the day. For the rest of the week before I see him again. Or, the rest of his life, really, because what does the future look like when you’re young and beautiful and all you know how to do is sell cocaine and fuck women like me? I try not to think about it too much as I pedal off to work, because who knows how long the rest of his life will be. Not very long, in all likelihood, or maybe just long enough to serve out a prison sentence. Grim, at the very least, but my tomorrow is not bleak because at least I have a job. 

I exhale and do not look back as I bike into the future by myself.

Friendships With Men Part 2

“I heard his dick wasn’t that big. Someone told me he had a
small dick.”

I look over in shock at my friend. Now, normally I wouldn’t
chafe at someone discussing rumors that someone I banged one time has a small
dick, but, normally I only talk to my girlfriends about the size of dudes’
dicks. Which is why I felt my face go a little sideways at the comment that was
coming out of my male friend’s mouth.

“Uh, no…no, he has a nice dick.”

It’s one of those awkward pissing contest moments, mostly
because (well, y’all know me…) I definitely had sex with my male friend. Years
ago, and we’re friends now, which is why I feel a little bit nonplussed when it
comes to the two of us discussing the dick size of a mutual friend that I
happened to fuck last week one time. I’m not sure if I’m supposed to sit there,
take his hand, and say something warm and loving, like, “Don’t worry, buddy, he
has a nice size penis, and he was good at using it, but yours is bigger and
nicer. And you’re better in bed.” Like that? Is that what I’m supposed to say?
I mean, if that was what I was supposed to say, I fucked up, because I
definitely didn’t say that. Instead I sat there, feeling kind of awkward,
because now in my mind I’m doing a side by side rewind of the sex that I had
with my friend and the sex I had with that one guy last week, trying to
determine who was a better, more skilled lover. Unfortunately, too much time
has passed for me to make an accurate assessment (also, drunk.), so I wait for
the conversation to meander into something less obviously and transparently ego
driven. Like, really, comparing dick size? Are we really doing this right now?

I glance out the window and try not to feel weirded out by
the entire interaction.

Booty Is As Booty Does

“I fuck people because I like sex. I mean, I couldn’t imagine fucking someone for any reason other than that because sex is so icky and hard and gross. Like, money? Social stature? Emotions? Sex is just so much work to do for any reason other than sex itself.”

My girlfriend is rolling her eyes at me. Probably because she’s a master at getting free shit from men with the promise of sex. Of course, she never fucks them, which is a skill I’m trying to pick up on.

Our conversation, however, is regarding this girl that we both met. And you know how this goes – despite being adamant feminists, here we are, talking shit about a hot new piece of ass that just dipped into town, trying to discern whether we like her or not. It’s not a very deep or important conversation, and, at the end of the day, our opinion doesn’t really matter. But it’s something fun to talk about, so here we go.

“Does she actually even do anything? Or does she just post selfies on the Internet?”

“Oh, eiw, yeah, huge red flag here: her Instagram is 75% selfies. Anyone who has an all-selfies account is a huge narcissist, and she’s definitely a narcissist.”

“Yeah, it only makes sense to do that if you’re a prostitute. Like, I get it that you have to post pictures of yourself on the Internet if you’re selling your body. But, otherwise, like, what? I don’t know, maybe this girl’s an undercover ho.”

“Hah, yeah! I mean, she’s one of those chicks who came up to me and said, ‘I don’t really sleep around.’ Like, she came up to me and straight up said that! I didn’t even ask her anything.”

“Oh, yeah, anyone who has to go out of their way to say they’re not a ho is 100% a ho. I mean, look at us, we know we fuck around, but at least we’re honest about it and not trying to act like something we’re not.”

“Hey! I’m not a slut. You’re the one who’s a slut. You know I don’t fuck men, I just get them to buy me shit.”

“Ugh, oh, yeah. I forgot. I’m little Miss Free Love, and you’re over there getting your whole life paid for. My bad.”

“Well, whatever, I’d still be friends with her cuz it seems like she got game. She pretty much asked me who I slept with so she could social graph her ho-ish-ness, and I told her because, fuck it, who cares. Anyone who tries to run game like that is kind of a boss.”

“Yeah, I gotta respect that. Sussing out the competition like that? That’s deep.”

“Anyways…do you wanna go to Legionnaire tonight? I think that one guy is going to be there.”

“The one you don’t want to fuck?”

“Yeah, but he’ll buy us shit, so that’s cool.”

“Word. Let’s go. I’m thirsty.”

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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.”