This is perfect to me.
This is perfect to me.
I have no confidence. This is something that I’ve been dealing with over the past few weeks, as I look at myself in the mirror in the morning when I have no make up on and no one else is around. It feels good to admit that on the Internet, because maybe it’s one of the truer sentiments I’ve expressed lately. It’s easy to be vulgar when vulgarity comes like a knee jerk reaction to every situation imaginable. So I’m going to put a pause on all the trite lechery that I spew out constantly, and I’m going to let you all know: I have no confidence. As a writer. And I hate this about myself. I have so much confidence as a lover; take me into any bar Downtown and I will show you exactly what it takes to ensnare some anybody right now. But as a writer, it’s so easy to self sabotage. To fail. To evade success or any sort of victory. It’s easy for me to tell myself that accomplishing nothing is what the world expects of me. And who am I to subvert the world’s expectations? I can sit in my bedroom and ruminate on various inane topics at length, I can expound on those things that touch the human soul. I can philosophize about you and me, but I can’t get past this lump in my throat that is making it so that Fuck Feast is the pinnacle of my act of creation. This is it, and somehow I’m stuck here.
I recently decided that it was time to stop lying to my lovers. That I should let the people I fuck know that I write about things that might be relevant to them. Which was a very hard thing to do, because I’m really fucking ashamed of this blog. It’s my dirty little secret, and I’d like to let you all know that the very expected happened: men still do not like this blog. I’ve realized that in theory this blog might make me seem like a very fuckable person, but once the fucking starts and the emotions get flowing, the situation changes. Attitudes towards this blog change. I know that I’m asking a lot, really, because this level of high stakes sexuality smeared across the Internet – that’s a lot to ask another person to be okay with. To support me creatively. To fuck me constantly. To grapple with this very public emotional instability, and then to take a starring role. To give a fuck. That’s a lot to ask of a person, but I’ve recently come to the conclusion that it’s not too much to ask. Sure, it’s a lot, but we all ask for a lot all the time. Aren’t we all just asking for love, and love is so much. So putting up with the blog, by extension, is not too much for me to ask. And I should stop fucking stupid people who are too dumb to realize that this is what’s on the table.
My life is fucking effulgent. Personal growth is a remarkable thing. Being in the process of blossoming feels god damn amazing, so surrounding myself with people who support that is crucial, and abandoning the toxic patterns of self sabotage as enabled by toxic people is on the outs. Which feels good.
I can feel the sadness inside me. That thick, bloated sadness, pressing against the walls inside of me. Almost bursting out. Oozing out of my pores, soggy and smelly like old water. I hold the sadness inside of me, and I try not to let it escape as it grows bigger and bigger, like some inevitable monster, leaking out of my insides and making everything messy again. I would like for this sadness to disappear. Evaporate from inside of me, suddenly one day and it’s gone. I would like to not be sad anymore, but, instead, my sadness is met with the whirlwinds of wrath that whip up inside of me from time to time. This hurricane of emotion creating a path of destruction that I strut down in stilettos and sparkly cat suits, feeling glamorous and porcelain like a doll in the museum of my emotions. Everything everywhere is breaking, and the weight of my sadness is sagging down on the roof of my reality, spilling yesterday’s thunderstorm all over the floor. Everything inside me is wet, and meanwhile the rest of the world is on fire. And I am just sitting here laughing about it all.
Today is the save lobot show!! It’s a day time show!! Come support this oakland gallery space. @religiousgirls is playing around 6! @meatmarketboys and #pinkslime are playing too! Along with other cool stuff!
I used to party at Lobot when I was in high school. I kinda can’t still believe it’s around, but it’s such a cool space. Save Lobot.
Things have started changing. As I sit here and stare at my phone, wondering when will that next text message come in. When will it come shooting into my life, aimed straight at my heart, galvanizing a sudden unraveling of the rest of my life. I wait for his text message to hit me in the back of the head. To knock me out. To slice through my back and leave me bleeding on the floor. As I sit here, with my phone in my hand, and what have I done. What am I doing. Why did I say that. When all I want is for him to walk through that door. Take the phone out of my hand. “Stop that.” Kiss me and tell me everything is going to be okay. I want him to make things right. But things will never be right, because things never have been right. And this is why things have started changing, because they have to change. I have to change. Things have to get better, and things will never be better when he’s around. So I push him away with the effortlessness of a text message, and he comes thundering back with his ever eloquent text Fuck you
That’s fine. It’s better this way, baby.
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 →
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 →
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.
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 →
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.”