Complex Baby

“I thought you were going to be boring.” He has a cigarette in one hand and me in the other.

“Boring? Me?” I ask, slightly miffed at the assumption. It’s morning again in this bright white room, sunny and in my mind there are birds chirping somewhere. Not here, because this is the city, where people are stacked on top of each other like building blocks. It’s a cramped, small room, but somehow it’s just comfortable enough. Me with my toes poking out from under the sheets and the two of us both naked. 

“Yeah, I don’t know. I just haven’t had much luck with Tinder.”

“Well, I hope I didn’t live up to that expectation.”

“Hah, no. You’re not boring. That’s not what I’m saying.”

I smile in approval as I curl up like a cat. I guess it’s a good thing that he thought I was boring. In retrospect, I try to keep the freak side under wraps just a little. It’s something that I should practice more often, mostly because I have a job that I need to keep, and my ever abounding anger management problems and penchant for wild, abandonless sex are constantly putting me at risk for compromising my professional standing. It’s something I just have to deal with, but practicing the art of being a basic bitch is something I’m not well versed in. Good. It’s good he thought I was boring. Of course, I easily dismantled that erroneous theory with my wild fuckery and crippling alcohol problem. 

“Thank you,” I reply as I peer out the window. In a city like this, I’m too poor to be able to afford the luxury of being boring. Survival forges interesting personalities, and money is the only thing that can purchase a lack of a personality. I’m too busy sharpening my teeth on the bones of lesser beasts to ever be boring, but that’s a secret I’ll keep to myself for now.

Toy Game

“I paint.”

“What do you paint?”

“Graffiti.”

“Oh. What do you write?”

He jumps up gleefully, fully shocked that I had the cultural perspicacity to know how to ask that question.

“What do I write?” he asks, obviously elated that I’m able to engage in this conversation. I try to look at him steadily so as to avoid rolling my eyes. He proceeds to prattle off his tag name, a few crews, some of the people he knows. They all register as absolutely irrelevant, so I keep smiling while he continues talking.

“Do you write?” he asks me. I scoff slightly at the question. As I’m sitting there in my fur coat and manicured nails. 

“No,” I reply dryly.

“Well, how, uh, how do you know about graffiti? Do you know about graffiti? Who do you know that tags?” he asks.

“Oh, I don’t know anybody,” I lie, already irritated that I’m engaged in this conversation. I mean, if there’s one thing I know about graffiti, it’s that I probably shouldn’t sit here and rattle off a long list of people I know who do graffiti. For several reasons, one being that, holy shit, people who do graffiti really do not like each other all that much, and they really enjoy beefing all the time, so there’s no fucking way I’m going to mention someone’s name on the off chance that there’s bad blood. Another reason being, I think this guy might be a toy, and if there’s anything I know about graffiti, it’s that it’s an art form that is constantly shrouded in secrecy. What am I going to do, dry snitch on my friends to this random dude I just met?

The conversation dies out quickly (because I wanted to mercy kill it, mostly), and he continues to look at me with awe. As though he’s impressed that I know anything about graffiti because I’m a girl with a fur coat and a manicure. He clearly doesn’t know who I am or who I know, but that’s fine. I smile and look away, and it occurs to me that maybe what I should tell this guy is that the people I know who are involved in this angsty art form are my friends not because they do graffiti but because they’re genuinely interesting, intelligent, creative people. And, unfortunately, just because he does graffiti, it doesn’t qualify him as interesting, intelligent or creative. It just qualifies him as another random as person who is irritating me at this bar, and knowledge of graffiti on both my end and his end doesn’t really make for an interesting personal connection, so better luck next time with your whack ass game.

Trillwave Feminism Doesn’t Give A Fuck About Your Orgasm

It was just one of those nights. I knew it as soon as I walked in the door, and then fifteen minutes later I was heaving and clutching at the sheets and rolling around in orgasmic ecstasy. A little bit sooner than it usually takes, but, hey, sometimes I just cum really fast. And I knew just because I’m a woman I know my body – it was a one and done kind of night. Which was unfortunate for me, as I idled there for a moment before he started fucking away at me again. Which generally doesn’t bother me, but I knew I had grossly miscalculated the timing of my orgasm in order to coincide with a comfortable ten minute window between his and mine. Nope, I had fucked. I had cum too fast. And what lay ahead of me was 30-45 more minutes of getting pounded by this guy. Oh, dear. 

Seeing as I could already tell that a second orgasm was going to be hard to attain at this point in time, I put in my work while my mind started to wonder. Because it occurred to me that if I were a man, this kind of situation would thoroughly be avoided by the social standard that states that: after a man cums, the sex is over. Well, not always true, I have met a few guys with a miraculous refractory period. And there are a few gentlemen out there who respect post-coital cunnilingus for the lady who didn’t cum. But, all in all, most men just hop off, wipe off and lie there after an orgasm. What a fucking luxury. Me? I have to endure another thirty minutes of this.

I guess that’s not a very legitimate complaint. But it did occur to me that the luxury of stopping as soon as an orgasm happens for me would be nice every once in a while. I got what I came for, and now it’s time to go. That would be interesting. Fun, really. But, instead, I’m supposed to kick it here and give a fuck about the other person’s orgasm. Ugh. Oh, great. I mean, as a woman, I’d like to state that we can all stop pretending that a prerequisite for fucking is caring about whether or not the other person cums. That just isn’t the case with a lot of people. Granted, there are plenty of magnanimous, sexually generous people who do care about the other party’s orgasm, but I think it would be nice if (for once!) I could be like all you macho dudes out there and bounce as soon as I nut. I’m a huge fan of sexual double standards. This one is now on my fuck bucket list.

Of course, what’s more preferable is that we entirely eliminate the idea that sex is an event that occurs for the benefit of a man’s orgasm. Although this opens up the possibility that people would actually have to communicate with their partners about how they want to orgasm and what it takes to get there, and that kind of communication opens up the possibility for all sorts of vulnerability when it comes to sexual preferences, physical functionalities, emotional expectations, etc… Sometimes being close to your partner on anything other than a physical level is both frightening and unappealing, so…uh, wait, what was I saying? Oh, yeah, this is what I was saying: hey, if I, as a woman, decide that sex is over as soon as I have an orgasm, and I get up and walk away, I think that I should enjoy the privilege of not being labelled an asshole or a selfish bitch, just because I think I should have the right to engage in the same bad behaviors as men with similarly nonexistent social repercussions. How do feel about that, Internet?

Love Is Fleeking

It’s been years now. Which is probably why I’m having such a hard time letting go. Granted, not years of a relationship. That’s not what I’m talking about. You should know me by now. That’s not how I do things. There’s none of the usual trappings of monogamous romantic bliss in here. Instead, it’s the consistent fuckery of on again, off again instability. Of doubt. Of not knowing what the future holds, but coming over at 7pm to fuck on a Monday night just because. Then getting dressed again, in time to go out to the bars and rub the stench of another man on someone else on the dance floor. That’s all it was.

But, for years. It has been years of this. Years of fetid friendship, cuffed with the misconstrued concept that we could fuck and everything would work out okay. We were wrong every time. It had never been anything more or anything less than continuous casual sex. But now somehow, here I am. And I don’t know why I’m feeling like this. It doesn’t make sense, really. This little bit of sadness in which I am indulging today. This emotion. This feeling of something, of anything. I’m not supposed to feel anything other than lust for him, but – oh, well, you get the picture. 

I have had boyfriends. They didn’t last long, really. Just the usual 3-13 month relationships that I paraded around town in the guise of bliss. They were always a sham, or, at least, I know this now. Which is funny, because after all these years – well, he’s still here. He’s the only one who has stuck around. He’s the only one with whom I can crawl into bed and cuddle while watching TV. We don’t call it dating, we just call it friendship, then we fuck, and then I leave. It’s a convenient arrangement. Not glamorous or pretty. It exists. That’s just it – it’s a relationship that exists, steadily, consistently, and fairly lovelessly, but I’m okay with that. And he is, too.

Although, not anymore, apparently. As we scoot away from each other in this wretched city. We haven’t spoken in months, and I’m not sure if it’s because we’re never going to speak again, or if it’s because this is just how it goes sometimes. I have been itching to call him. But not itching too much, otherwise I would have called him by now, but I have other things to distract me, and I also thought I’d wait for him to call first. Or we’d run into each other and smile. Or some new magical boyfriend would stumble onto my plate. But none of that has happened yet. Which is probably why I’m thinking of him, like some sort of internal alarm clock that sets of a buzzer of “It’s time to have good sex with someone you love” after two months of disappointing copulation. 

But I don’t want to need this because the last time we did this it ended so badly. And I feel guilty about it, and what if the reason we haven’t spoken is because he never wants to speak to me again? But we were both too cool to say it out loud. It’s casual sex, so knock down, drag out arguments about the emotional fragility of our sexual arrangement would be too – too serious. Too relationship-y. Which is why, one day, we just stopped talking. For no reason, except that I got clingy. I wanted too much one day, and then, the next day – it was gone. That’s the fleeting nature of our relationship, isn’t it. 

I look at his number in my phone with his picture beside it. How many times have I deleted this contact? Only to have it still here, steadfast, and is this the moment? My finger hovers, my mouth quivers. Do I reach out and touch him? Or should I keep bustling through the bars in search of some substitute to the casual numbness of my fake relationship with this boy I might love. I might not love him. I might just want to fuck him. 

I know that the last time we had sex wasn’t the last time we’d ever fuck, but I don’t know if this week is the right time to rekindle our relationship. I put everything on pause yet again, my emotions most specifically, and I get back on Tinder to pass the time.

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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.”