Love Letters to Nobody

He’ll never read this. I know he never will, and even if he did, he wouldn’t know that it’s for him. It’s all for him. As I sit here on my bedroom floor in my pajamas and my eyes full of tears. And he’ll never know how much I love him, because I’ll never tell him. Because even if I told him, what then? Me, with my face full of tears, and him, like he always is, sitting so far away with nothing to say. We are miles away from each other as we sit here at this table together, but if he would only bridge that gap with his hand on my hand – but, no. He will always be too far away, and I will always be sitting here, hoping, and waiting, and wanting. And suffering the plight of woman, with her love letters to nobody.

Other People’s Exes

He’s been calling her a slut for quite some time now, and the last time I looked they had broken up six months ago. Although, it’s not that he’s calling her a slut, it’s that he’s going over her tags with the word “slut.” So what’s most interesting to me is the fact that someone who is on the outer edges of my social circle is blatantly publicizing the fact that he is *not* over his exgirlfriend, who apparently is dating someone new, but the exact minutiae of her sex life are not privy to me, therefore the veracity of the accusation that she is a slut is unknown to me. However, it seems apparent that she isn’t exactly spreading it all over town. She has just, as most women do, moved on to something better. Which is why I’m confused as to why I know so much about the fact that the exboyfriend thinks she’s a slut. When, what everybody knows is that he’s the one who’s been spreading it all over town. I’m not sure if this guy is projecting just a wee bit, and in all honesty I barely know her, but I have to respect a woman that lets a man make such a wild ass out of himself in a public way. Because I don’t see her losing in this situation. In fact, isn’t it a victory? He obviously isn’t over her, and if there’s any testament to the power of feminine wile it’s controlling your man so much so that even after it’s over, months and months after it’s over, he’s still pissing around town, wailing about his broken heart, because, girlfriend, you control that man. He is in your pocket, and you have won because there you go with your boyfriend and your smiling Instagram pictures. And everyone else out here is saying, “Oh, shit!” as he puts himself and his own butt hurt broken heart on blast. And, just so you know, no one thinks you’re a slut. People respect you because you’re not losing at a game that men invented, and that is probably the most threatening thing to a man. Ever. 

Control Your Man Is a Feminist Mantra

“She treated me the way that I treat girls,” he said, sobbing slightly into his cup of whiskey. It had been revealed a few days earlier that she had, in fact, been fucking around, although the exact details of her fuckery are not completely known to me at this point in time. Although, maybe I don’t need to know, and all I need to know is that she treated him the way that he treats girls. Which is like shit, and maybe there’s something noble about not being a complete fucking door mat to a notoriously scummy hipster guy who spends his time skulking around bars and trying to get a piece on the side just for the fuck of having a piece on the side. It’s hard for me to sit here next to him and feel any sort of pity for somebody who feels sad that his boo was messing around, mostly because it’s 2014, and also because it’s Oakland, and any guy who feels some sort of sadness because he couldn’t control his girl because girls in Oakland in 2014 can’t be controlled by men. We’re beasts, really, rabid and wild, not the kind of creatures that can be controlled or expected to kowtow to the simpering will of weak men. So, do I give a fuck that his boo was “cheating” on him? No, absolutely not. In fact, even though this guy is my friend, and I don’t even really know her very well, part of me is plotting to hit her up on Facebook as soon as I get home so that I can give her a digital pat on the back because, well, isn’t this what we’re doing now? Playing their game back on them? And women slut shaming other women is a primary enemy of my version of trillwave feminism, so instead of sitting here and sneering and letting myself think, “Oh, how could she!” Instead, I’m sitting here thinking that she’s a boss, and look at her, look at well she controlled her man. Because here he is, crying into his whiskey while she canoodles across town with some other boy who is probably equally infatuated with her and her wily way of snaking men. She is a man trap, and I absolutely adore any woman who is the master of her own sexual destiny. You know me, girl, and I know you, so let’s link up and juice dudes next weekend because I have nothing better to do tonight.

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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 →