Half Truths and Total Delusion

I’m not a liar, but most people are too stupid to ask the right questions. So the truth never comes out. As I sit there, gnawing on some half-truth that I’m about to spit into someone else’s ear. Ah, if only he knew. I can tell by that little glimmer in the back of his eye exactly what he wants me to say to him right now, so I smile, and I swallow my spit before I speak. I can tell that he’s picked up on the sexual tension I have with just about everybody in this room right now, and my reputation demands the assumption that the sexual tension has already been acted on. Which it has, with just about everyone in this room, and he asks me, “Who is that guy?”

I smile confidently and spew out more bullshit. “Oh, that’s so&so. I’ve known him for a couple years, he DJs at some bar.” Which is meant to avoid the mental rewind of me on my knees three months ago at four in the morning at my house, but, hey, that’s not the question he asked. And that’s not the answer he got, so I smile and wave to my friend across the room, and he smiles and waves back. Because he knows. As I sit here with my date, who is at this exact moment completely unaware of what’s about to happen to him if a fuck fulfills my fancy tonight. But my friend across the room – he knows. He’s had those fast flashes of the depths of my insanity as manifested through my coarse sexuality, but, for now. I keep smiling, and I keep drinking, and I keep my hand on his thigh to let him know that it’s okay. Everything’s going to be okay, and, then, suddenly, in just a few hours, you’ll be naked in my bed and begging for mercy.

Ex Hex

I see him everywhere I go. I can’t leave the house without seeing him anymore, but I guess that’s my own fault. Note to self: do not date anyone who is more successful than I am. Date the stupid ones. The ones that are easy to manipulate. The ones that don’t know the difference and will always be in awe. Why did I text him that one last time? Does he think I’m a fool? Or does he just know it. As I sat there with that phone in my hand and the lingering half-sentences of me needing attention from him. Ah, yes, the unrequited text message of, “What’re you doing?” or “Want to hang out?” Or whatever pile of useless words I used to try to get him near me again. Ugh. Second note to self: do not drunk text exboyfriends at four in the morning while waiting for a cab at the house of some dude you just boned. It’s very transparent. I might as well scream, “Do you want to be my sloppy seconds!” into the receiver. I wonder if he’s laughing at me. Or if he looks away in shame. Or, maybe, even worse yet – does he just not think of me at all anymore?

Hook Up

I fuck him like I’m trying to exorcise all my demons through my pussy, and the next day when I’m alone I feel like crying. But I don’t cry, because I know that the emptiness I feel will be filled up later today with the feelings of hating someone else more than I hate myself. I am a bad person, but I don’t think that everyone in this world has exactly caught on yet. So I keep swaying through these smiles and dead eyes until I can find my brief moments of release and redemption.

Close to Me

So I’m sitting at the bar, talking to some boy because I know that from halfway across the bar he can see me sitting here, sipping and laughing at all the unfunny things that this boy is saying to me right now. Call it an innate predilection for manipulation and a passing affinity for the alchemy of his jealousy and my sadism. People get jealous. But I don’t get jealous, so I’m sitting here showing no emotion while I can feel the eyes burning in the back of my head. I know what I’m doing, and I’m going to do it again and again and again. Until I break him, and by the time I break him he’ll be grabbing me by the arm and physically dragging me away from some conversation with some boy that I really have no intention of fucking so that he can monopolize my attention and force me to make him feel like he’s the most attractive person in the room. Which he might be, but I have no interest in pursuing someone who isn’t willing to lose control of their emotions and their ego for the sake of fucking me. Which is why I wear short skirts in the first place. Which is why I collect exboyfriends like baseball cards, and I play them against each other so that I can be the winner of a game that I’m playing by myself called eschewing intimacy at the cost of everything, always.

True Love

I love him, and I want to watch him bleed. As we sit here with our conversations, and there he is, naked in my mind but fully clothed in front of me. I would fuck him. I would fuck him and let him do whatever the fuck he wanted to me. He can hold me softly in the darkness of night, or cram me full of cock until I cry, “Uncle!” or is it “Daddy!” I can’t tell the difference right now, and I know that he’ll say no to every fantasy that I am fast forwarding through in my mind. Which is why I want to watch him bleed. Because he doesn’t love me back, and what else am I supposed to do if I can’t fuck him. I want to cut him and watch him bleed dirty across this bar floor. The weight of love in my heart is too much for me to handle.

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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 →