Green Lighting

I’m sitting at the bar ignoring the world around me and fielding a slew of incoming text messages after sending pertinent information about violence against a woman by one particular person to the craziest, angriest, most indiscriminately punchiest people I know. I feeling kind of incensed after learning about a particular social injustice against a particular friend of mine, so I took into my own hands to start dialing the phone tree for “who’s going to fucking kill this mother fucker.” It’s a thrilling activity really, but one that fills me with rage and, residually, anxiety and stress. Because the feminist goon squad with which I am loosely affiliated is a frightening clan, and that’s the thing about violence: it goes both ways. But I’m not the type of person to let fear get in the way of my daily activities, so I type away regardless. While everyone I’m sitting with at this table in the bar is wondering what the fuck is going on with me and why my phone is blowing up, I’m just sitting there, feeling my heart rate rise while plaster this dude’s picture into the minds of men who have nothing better to do than kick ass on a whim.

Do You Want To Wear My Skin??

“These girls just want to cut our skin off and wear it.”

“Really? You think so?” I say.

“Yeah. They think that if they wear the clothes that we wear, and they listen to the music that we listen to, and they go to the parties that we go to, and they’re into the same art that we’re into, and if they fuck the same guys that we fuck, that they’ll be just like us. That they’ll be strong and pretty and popular and interesting and smart like us. But what they don’t realize is that what makes us who we are isn’t what we wear or who we fuck or where we go. It’s the struggle that we’ve been through. That’s why these rich girls think they can just jock our style and be cool. But they’ll never be cool, because they’ll never know what it’s like to survive. And that’s what makes us who we are. Our struggle. That’s what gives us strength.”

I’m sitting with my friend Indigo, discussing the constant onslaught of poser bitches who always try to be us but don’t quite make it. Because being us is quite a lot of work, and if you don’t have to do it, then why bother.

“I just think it’s funny when people try to fuck the dudes I fuck. It’s like…seriously? Have you seen the dudes I fuck? They’re fucking crazy! Even the dudes I don’t fuck that I hang out with, they’re…they’re unmanageable. Why anyone would subject themselves to that without first having some extreme emotional problems just doesn’t make sense.”

“Yeah, and everyone can tell that they’re just hella fake deep.”

“Would you refer to them as…deep thots??”

“Hahaha, yes!”


On Relationship Anarchy

Relationship anarchy is a lifestyle, a way of doing personal relationships. Relationship anarchy is a philosophy, specifically a philosophy of love. A relationship anarchist believes that love is abundant and infinite, that all forms of love are equal, that relationships can and should develop organically with no adherence to rules or expectations from outside sources, that two people in any kind of emotionally salient relationship should have the freedom to do whatever they naturally desire both inside their relationship and outside of it with other people.


Relationship anarchists do not rank personal, loving relationships. They do not see any set of behaviors as innately restricted to romantic and/or sexual relationships, which certainly makes it difficult to elevate romantic-sexual relationships to a superior position above nonsexual/nonromantic relationships. RA’s see all of their personal, loving relationships—meaning, any relationship that isn’t professional or casual in nature—as equally important, unique, fulfilling different needs or desires in their life, and as possessing similar or identical potential for emotional/physical/mental intimacy, love, and satisfaction. A relationship anarchist does not place an emotional ceiling on nonromantic/nonsexual friendship or on a sexual friendship that’s devoid of “romance.” A relationship anarchist does not limit physical/sensual affection in their nonsexual relationships just because they’re nonsexual or nonromantic. A relationship anarchist does not expect to spend most of their time with just one sexual partner/romantic partner or with their romantic/sexual partners in general, nor does an RA assume that the romantic/sexual relationships (if they have any) automatically deserve or get more time and prioritization than the nonsexual/nonromantic relationships.

From The Thinking Asexual

The concept of relationship anarchy was something to which I was recently introduced. As with many radical philosophies, it was one that just clicked as soon as I heard about it. The parameters of relationship anarchy are already ones within which I live, and putting a title to my radical approach to relationships gave me a bit reprieve.

Relationship anarchy isn’t a new concept; rather, it’s a new term for an age old human practice. We see relationship anarchy in any sort of relationship that challenges the idea that a monogamous, sexual, romantic, long term relationship is the ideal kind of relationship and the only kind of relationship that is acceptable on a long term basis. This can be seen in people who put a relationship with a parent or sibling ahead of a romantic relationship, putting a professional relationship ahead of a romantic relationship, putting a platonic relationship ahead of a friendship, or putting a sexual relationship ahead of a romantic relationship. We live in a society that says that putting anyone ahead of your romantic-sexual partner is unhealthy, even if it’s another romantic-sexual partner. We tell ourselves fairy tales about romantic love, but we do not give ourselves the permission to find fulfillment in different types of relationships. We tell ourselves that assigning sexual relationships a secondary function within our lives is wrong

One of the tenets that I respect in relationship anarchy is the rejection of the idea that just because you engage sexually with someone, that vaunts them to the position of a primary relationship within your life and gives them the right act accordingly. Relationship anarchy embraces the idea that engaging in sex does not guarantee any sort of emotional entitlement or even an emotional monopoly on another person. Engaging in sex does not guarantee or even imply monogamy, nor does sex give another person any claim to special treatment or a special relationship. Sex means sex, and that’s about it. The decision to progress within a sexual relationship into a romantic, loving or monogamous relationship is not based on the tacit promises of sexuality but, rather, the explicit consent between (or among) the people in the relationship.

Relationship anarchy is just a fancy term for something that a lot of people already practice, but giving it a fancy term also gives legitimacy to the concept. Growing up, we are taught that the primary relationship in our adult life should be a romantic, sexual, monogamous one. In reality, that is not entirely practical. But what’s most disturbing about that is knowing that people who do not revere the romantic, sexual, monogamous relationship as their primary relationship are often viewed as emotionally stunted, unloveable and unloving. Relationship anarchy is important as a practice not because it’s a new way of doing things but because it’s a new way of framing the conversation and giving equal validity to different relationship nuances.

As someone who has been practicing relationship anarchy for years, it is not an easy practice. One of my primary relationships for the past 4+ years has been a platonic relationship with a man with whom I cohabitate. In previous posts, I have covered the ups and downs of being a woman who is a close friend with a man. People often mistake this primary relationship as a romantic one, a sexual one, or a familial one, but actually we’re just best friends who live together, hang out together, go out together, and attend each others’ family events. We have a history, we have a present, and the future is discussed, too.

Because one of my primary relationships is not a man with whom I am engaged in a sexual, romantic, monogamous relationship, I practice relationship anarchy. Likewise, because my sexual and romantic relationships are not necessarily given the same priority and weight as my primary relationships, I practice relationship anarchy. It’s not that my romantic, sexual relationships can’t have the same priority and weight as my primary relationships; it’s that after one month of knowing someone and fucking someone, it doesn’t make sense to give that person the same power in my life as my friends whom I have known for years. That power is something that must be earned, and sex is not a short cut to having power over me in my life.

In my personal life, this approach to relationship anarchy has caused problems because many people do not share that same view point. People treat sex as a quick way to gain power over someone emotionally, but, really, sex is just a different form of getting to know someone. Sex is not a magical act that unlocks all the secrets to another person’s psyche, but, rather, sex gives you a way to see someone when they’re naked and primal. This is an idea that can be reflected in relationships that engage in casual sex.

Casual sex is a big part of relationship anarchy because casual sex by its definition strays from the constraints of the sexual relationship as primary relationship. A lot of people have a lot of things to say about casual sex these days, especially on college campuses, but suffice it to say that casual sex, when in the context of other healthy relationships, and when practiced safely and respectfully, can be an exciting aspect of practicing relationship anarchy. Maintaining several casual sex relationships while also maintaining other primary relationships is an example of relationship anarchy. Ethical sluts are relationship anarchists. Bromance is an example of relationship anarchy, as are open relationships, as is infidelity (although infidelity is relationship anarchy in its shittiest incarnation). Relationship anarchy rejects the idea that one person should be all things for another person, hence giving traditional monogamy the shaft without necessarily excluding monogamy from potential relationship dynamics. A monogamous relationship in confluence with other types of relationships that are given equal weight and importance within the fabric of one’s relationships can constitute relationship anarchy when practiced consciously.

Many of us already practice relationship anarchy; we just didn’t know there was a word for it. Again, our relationship anarchy is defined by seeking out relationships that aren’t expected to conform to a set of predetermined rules and regulations and allowing our relationship to grow and mold into the best relationships they can be. To some, the word anarchy may connote chaos, but in relationship anarchy, it means opening yourself up to the endless possibilities that every type of relationship can offer you. So, have you opened yourself up yet?

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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.”