The Voter’s Paradise

This is our moment of hysteria, and I am standing right inside it. Like the eye of the storm, and I am staring out into the tornado of social media, and loud conversations at bars, and bumper stickers, and screen caps of head lines in my incoming text messages, and reposts of links to various liberally biased news media. Suddenly we are all fighting about something that barely matters, but heaven forbid we pass up a chance to participate in the circus of politics. I wake up every day and applaud giddily as I watch everyone fall head over heels to expound an opinion that has an impact on no one. I would rather talk about the Kardashians than another presidential candidate because at least everyone knows the Kardashians aren’t real. And it’s a lot more interesting to watch everyone react to the emesis of media surrounding the fantasy of someone else’s glossy life that doesn’t really exist than it is to watch people believe in something that they might never find out isn’t real. It’s Kindergarten all over again. I know that Santa isn’t coming on the first Tuesday after the first Monday this coming November. Instead, it’s just our parents, selling us some sort of dream to keep us placated and well behaved while they do things like flush the goldfish down the toilet and buy a new one and say he never died. Except that most of us will never grow up fast enough to really participate in the political process, or to truly have an impact – not because we can’t or we won’t, but who wants to? Who would pass up a lifetime of drinking at bars and scraping through Oakland in order to do something meaningful? None of us. Instead, it is much easier to pretend to care while yelling about something that all of us will forget by this time next year. I enjoy watching TV as much as the next person, but this is just a reminder that even reality TV has been scripted and your emotions have already been written in and written off. So have fun viewing.

Future Ex

He talks about his ex, and I tell him it’s okay, but then I wonder: how okay is it, really? As we sit here, and I listen, and I can feel inside me a slight note to self: I should text my ex, too. I should call him. I should go over to his house and see if he touches me on the leg. Or on the neck. As I sit here and listen to the one I should love tell me about his ex, and how she has been calling, and how she has been texting. I sit here and I think about being that girl: the ex who is texting. It would be very easy for me to text. And I think it would be very easy to see him again, too, because the one I love is going to see his ex. If he is going to see his ex, then mine will come just as easily. Although, then I wonder: if there’s all this fascination with our mutual exes, why should we be with each other in the first place? Perhaps we should be with our exes instead. We were with them at one point for a damn good reason, weren’t we? So why are we here, now? Although maybe it’s because we both know that as soon as we leave each other, then we will become exes, too, and the constant fleeing back into the arms of exes only works when all of it was worth something. Perhaps we are not there yet, so it’s stumbling into the folly and intrigue of chasing something that failed just months ago. We still have more time with which to ruin everything we are working towards. It is too soon for us to be exes already.

Call Me

I haven’t heard from him for hours, which means that he hasn’t heard from me, either. That’s because I’m sitting in my bedroom, being all alone, which is usually how I am when he’s not around. Here I am, with my hands in my lap and the TV on, and now I am wondering, ‘Why haven’t I heard from him for hours?’ And how long before hours turn into days, and days turn into weeks, and suddenly I am months away from right now but still sitting in my room all alone with my hands in my lap, and he’s not in my life. This has happened before, and it might happen again. These hours that stretch out onto the horizon of the rest of my life. It always happens suddenly, but pain lingers so slowly. I try not to panic as the hours stack on, and today becomes tomorrow, and I still haven’t heard from him. I don’t know how long it will be before this passing anxiety passes completely, or what will happen if it just stays here forever, and I become ugly because of it?

The Possibility and The Probability of Infidelity

Phones go off, and I look away. It’s another day, yet here we are next to each other with other people on our mind. That is a private thing: to sit next to someone and dream about someone else. No one will ever know. No one will ever see. No one can track down your inside thoughts about someone else who is far away, and that someone else will never be able to read the thoughts that are spinning inside your head naked and hot. I can sit right next to him, fully clothed and smiling just a bit because at the edge of my lip I can taste someone else. And he will never know that this is why I am smiling. So I look at him, and he is smiling, too, but not because of me. Not for me. It must be for someone else, too, and as soon as I realize that this is the case, the ceaseless onslaught of realizing all the reasons why he must be thinking about someone else comes pouring down. Who is she? Is there only one? And why am I not her? We are supposed to be sitting next to each other, together, yet for some reason this room is filled with other people that neither of us can see and that do not know they’re here. There is nothing to be done about it for now, so later, late at night, we will lie down next to each other and be quiet about these things. Although tomorrow is a different story, and phones go off, and then we are marching somehow into the arms of someone completely new.

Dog Love

It’s not my house, and it’s not my dog, so it’s not my rules. I didn’t think about it until recently, but then it occurred to me one night as we were on the couch fucking, and I glanced over with my eyes open in a moment of glancing when: there was the dog, with its head buried in a pillow. I didn’t let this moment of concern for another living creature stop me from doing what I was doing, but the next day the image of dog sitting there, looking slightly bereaved and trying to bury his head struck me. Should I not be fucking in front of the dog? Should I be saving my coital activities for the bedroom where the dog cannot see? (But can probably still hear. Not all things can be helped.) Is this traumatic for the dog? I’ve never owned a dog before, so I don’t know what the protocol for this one is. Do we take him to therapy so he can bark about his emotions? Is it bad to let the dog see me naked? I try to pet the dog the next morning when I leave, but he shies away from me as I walk out the door. I try not to let it get to my head as I go about my day, but I do have to wonder: is this an okay thing to do?

Morning Sex

I refuse to move during morning sex, and also I refuse to open my eyes or participate in any other exciting way. Morning sex is now and always will be my least favorite time to have sex. Mornings are just generally painful for me, and while I do enjoy sex, I have to admit that I prefer sleeping in. Sex is a pretty jarring experience, and I usually feel very delicate in the morning. Like a freshly dew dropped flower. Except now I’m getting tore up by a penis. Le sigh. I guess that’s okay, because it’s also nice to start the day off with a good deed, and, hey, I don’t mind morning sex actually. Really, it’s kind of comforting once I get into it and accept the fact that I am not sleeping right now. But, otherwise, generally, morning sex is a nonorgasmic experience for me. It’s not that I’m okay with that per se, but I know that I’m going to get mine later, so I’m willing to participate just for the fun of it. Can’t really knock sex. It is pretty cool.

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Anatomy of a Manic Oakland Dream Girl

The concept of the manic pixie dream girl is one that is so played out in popular culture, mostly because she’s a mythical creature, but also, if you live in Oakland, the manic pixie dream girl is a fucking joke. For the most part, the manic pixie dream girl is an irritatingly quirky white girl who pops up at parties and thinks that she’s and/or the center of attention because she’s playing into the trope of the manic pixie dream girl. However, as an Oakland party girl, I figured I’d let you know that we have our own version of the manic pixie dream girl, but it’s skewed through dark wave lens of drug addiction, darkness and having lived your whole life in the ghetto. So, for anyone who’s curious, here’s there anatomy of Oakland’s resident dream girl:

  • The Manic Oakland Dream Girl is born and bred Bay Area. She’s from here, so she gets it. She’s got that drop of ratchet in her blood from her time spent in Oakland, a bit of urbanity from weekends shlepping it in the city, and a very subtle hippie side that comes from cruising through Berkeley when there’s nothing else to do. She speaks the language, dresses the part, and bumps Mac Dre relentlessly at all hours of the day.
  • The Manic Oakland Dream Girl knows where all the good parties are – you know, the ones deep West or out in the East where all the beautiful coke heads go to dance all night -, and she goes to them pretty regularly. She has a drug dealer friend that will hook you up, a flask of Hennessy in her purse, dances like a stripper, and has slept with the DJ, but they’re cool, so don’t trip.

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The Fuck Feast Sexual Literacy Test

And, speaking of call backs and sexual literacy tests, here’s a list of things that I expect a man to ace on the first hook up:

  • Mastery of Attraction So, this is everything that happens before we get into the bedroom. A mastery of attraction means that you have a rudimentary understanding of the female ego, interpersonal communication and lust. A little bit of flattery, well responded to text messages, and flirtation. This is also the mastery of being attractive, so, y’know, take a shower and put on some nice shoes, okay?
  • Ability to get it up This is crucial. Look, if you can’t get it up, that’s fine. You overindulged. Or you’re nervous. Or you’re just no that into this. That’s fine. However, if you can’t get it up, why did you wheedle your way into my bedroom? Why are my clothes off if you can’t perform? I understand that we all can’t be perfect all the time, but being able to get an erection is crucial to fucking, and if you can’t do that, then you’re just not ready for this, honey, and you’re wasting my time. It’s back to the friend zone for you. Unless, of course, you make up for it with copious amounts of oral sex. That’s cool.
  • Oral Sex To be specific, cunnilingus. This is so day one. If you don’t eat pussy, then get the fuck away from me. If you don’t eat pussy, I can’t imagine what else it is that you won’t do. Eating pussy is the most basic move in the book, and if you don’t have this mastered, then who are you and what are you doing with your life?

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A Woman’s Experience of Lust Part II

There are snakes in my eyes as I slither between these sheets to wind up the leg of some new beast, slurping up sins and sensation like a newborn Eve on her first night fucking Adam. And what does it feel like to eat meat, red, raw and dripping while white blankets carry the new stains of another night in heaven. I would like to know what it feels like to be good, but I am too busy being bad to ever stop and pause and consider any other alternative option. I just let my fingers do the talking, whispering sweet nothings to the buttons at the top of your pants, singing sweet songs to your zipper as I zip and unzip and pull down and around. We both know what kind of secrets are hidden therein, all those beautiful inches upon inches of – well, inches of you. Read more →

A Woman’s Experience of Lust

Lust, which is just how I like it. But this is my lust, not yours. This is my deep, red sin, not yours. This is my experience of lust, my singular experience. I cannot vouch for your experience of lust, but I am offering you mine in the hopes that it can illuminate and accentuate your own experience of lust. To make it better. So that we can all experience lust on an elevated level, fine tuned and tingling in the night. This is my experience of lust, gnawing raw through the night, while yours might be elsewhere, sipping tea in the sunshine on a vast, grassy field. My lust is a beast, but yours…well, what is yours? Is your lust a rabbit, soft and petting, or a shark, filled with teeth? Is your lust a car that goes fast and crashes through the median? Or an explosion in a coal mine, killing everything around it? Is it blistering and bright? Yellow and pretty? Or does it skulk around, alone through rooms, looking ugly and yelling loudly?

This is my experience of lust. This is my experience of that chafing, fast emotion. It is a dangerous situation that I wade through wantonly, and you are welcome, dear spectator, to watch me stumble down. But you? Well, I expect you to experience lust in your own way, and if you would like to laugh at me while you do, please be my guest. But if anything, make sure that you experience your lust as beautifully as possible, because I certainly am.