Sexual Tantrums: A General Commentary on Advice for Sluts

I was recently talking to a friend who was telling about the concept of sexual psychosis and her experience with it. She basically told me that after a traumatic incident, she coped by engaging in what is typically described as promiscuous sexual behavior. I found that to be very fascinating, so I googled ‘sexual psychosis’ and was surprised to see that nothing incredibly technical or medical popped up. ‘Sexual psychosis’ isn’t a term in the DSM, but if you extrapolate the definition of psychosis and apply it sexuality (i.e. hallucinations, delusions, catatonia and thought disorders), we may found the line at which sexuality becomes toxic.

During that conversation, I realized that I rue the concept of sexual psychosis. Seeing as it is not a term in the DSM (and therefore lacks medical credibility), it’s hard to not raise an eyebrow to what could be a preemptive and erroneous diagnosis of someone else’s sexual behavior. My friend admitted that the reason that sexual expression helped her feel better after trauma was due to the fact that it made her feel good about herself. It released the oxytocin in her brain, and who’s to say that doing something that makes you feel good is a bad thing.

It bums me out to see people pathologizing sexuality, especially female sexuality. When looking for the line between sexual liberation and sexual pathology, it’s worth noting that a lack of control over one’s sexual actions is what separates one from the other. Much like an addiction, when an individual loses control over their sexual appetite and their sexual fulfillment, and when those sexual actions threaten other areas of their lives, such as their job, their family, their home and their finances, that is when it becomes pathological. However, even with that in mind, our sexual and romantic relationships often times have the ability to negatively impact those areas of our lives without even necessarily being pathological. It’s easy to see a romantic relationship or promiscuous sexual behavior as threatening to a person’s well being and to then classify that behavior as bad or wrong, but often times this behavior is a part of growing as a person. Sometimes we have to learn these lessons the hard way, and it doesn’t necessarily mean that a person is sick or wrong or bad.

What’s important to note is that even as sexual behavior becomes pathological, often times this behavior is the symptom, not the cause. It’s easy to point a finger at outlandish sexual behavior and sound the alarm, but it’s important to consider that sexuality is about physicality, it’s about contact, it’s about touching, it’s about pleasure, and, lastly, it’s about other people. Sexual behavior necessitates other people as soon as it exits the masturbatory realm, and when you think of sexuality as a symptom of other toxic factors, we see that reaching out for pleasure with other people seems like such a natural remedy to interior pain. Pathologizing the desire to be close to other people, to touch other people as it exists within the realm of consensual, adult sex seems cruel because think of all the reasons why someone would want to be close to other people, and how that could manifest as promiscuous behavior in a woman.

There’s nothing inherently wrong with being promiscuous, which is why it was hard for me to hear my friend talk about her sexual psychosis. I’m not a medical professional, so I can’t really say whether or not that term accurately described her situation, but hearing her talk about it and feeling that there were striking similarities between her pathological behavior and what I consider to be my normal sexual behavior made me feel uncomfortable. Having gone up against people who have tried to tell me that my sexual behavior is aberrant and abnormal and having walked away from those conversations feel justified in knowing that what I do sexually is not only my own business but also perfectly healthy for who I am, I rue the idea that someone who is in full control of her sexual behavior can be told that she is, in fact, not. Sure, there were moments in my sexual history when I felt unhappy with what I was doing, but as soon as I felt unhappy, I changed what I was doing to feel better about my situation.

It’s easy for people to look at a woman’s motivations for sexuality and to say what is or isn’t the right reason why a woman jumps in bed with another person. Seeking comfort after trauma, seeking validation after a break up, assuaging loneliness, seeking validation of one’s physical attractiveness are all reasons that get poo pooed because a woman who has sex due to insecurity is for some reason socially unacceptable. For some reason, seeking attention, especially sexual attention, due to one’s insecurities is something that many people readily scoff at. Women who dress too flamboyantly, wear too much make up, or act out sexually in public are put down for their behaviors, yet in shaming women who seek validation or sexual experience or sexual attention, we shame something that is very natural and very human. Wanting to be validated as a sexual creature is a very natural thing, so much so that it’s hard wired into our DNA. Yet we say that if a woman is being sexual because of these reasons she is cheap or tacky.

It’s hard for me to believe that because this kind of sexual behavior is part of the initial steps of sexual exploration. We learn how to be sexual by being part of a community, and being sexual within that community by seeking attention even when one is unsure of what she is doing is part of that process. Often times, this kind of sexual behavior is just a phase. It is an initial phase, and sometimes it can be hard to watch people who are not able to grow beyond the initial sexual phase of attention seeking and into secondary sexual phases such as forming long term, fulfilling relationships and being confident and secure in one’s sexual ability to find and satisfy new partners. The fact of the matter is, sexual attention feels good. It’s fun. It makes us feel pretty, and what’s so wrong with wanting to feel pretty? Sure, it might not be the loftiest goal in life, but ego validation is cheap, so why not get it while we can.

I realize that even while talking about what the limits of female sexuality can be, and the fact that these limits are probably way beyond where our society currently places them, there are still occasions when we can fall into toxic sexual behavior. Learning to pinpoint where toxic sexual behavior truly lives and differentiating that behavior from societal pressures to keep our sexuality within a certain, prudish, well kept box is an important part of developing one’s sexuality. Specifically as toxic sexuality refers to promiscuous behavior in women, all I can really say is what I learned from my personal experience: if you are unhappy within yourself, then something is wrong. It’s pretty much as simple as that.

Of course, it’s easy for us to be unhappy with our sexual behavior because society tells us that we’re dirty and we’re wrong, but I’m not talking about that kind of unhappiness. I’m talking about the kind of unhappiness that lives in the pit of your stomach when you feel like everything should be right, but for some reason you’re missing something in your life. If you have lost control over your actions, if you are under duress from your sexual partners, if your sexual behavior is not motivated by your own empowerment and pleasure but rather a perfunctory sexuality, then reassessing what you want from your sexual behavior and finding a way to attain what you truly want will help bring you more joy. Seeing a therapist and attending your local Sex and Love Addicts Anonymous meetings will help you get in tune with what kind of sexual behavior is right for you. Sex is fun, but meaningful, loving relationships with the people in our lives are important and often times more fulfilling that rapid fire casual sex, so finding a balance between the two while also being able to healthily attain your desires will help you find what truly makes you happy. However, if sleeping around for right now is what makes you happy, then go for it.

Conversations with Women About Being Women

We all sit around this table with our drinks in our hands, being pretty in our own ways while somewhere across town there are boys wondering what the fuck what we’re doing and what we’re talking about. But we just sit here and smile, and the things we talk about are as diverse as we are, discussing our sexual tactics for male domination and what’s the best way to ruin a man with your pussy? How can we be pretty and mean at the same damn time? What can you say to a man to dismantle his ego in one fell swoop? This is what we do to ensure that he is still thinking about us while we run away into someone else’s arms.

And then we laugh.

These are the things that our mamas told us, and these are the things that we tell each other. Sitting here, conniving, right before we get drunk enough to run back home and practice what we preach. We call it feminism, although the female pursuit for power – whether on a social level or in our relationships – might not necessarily be about equality anymore. Maybe this isn’t feminism, but we are existing within the long standing tradition of being women in a world built for men. We have our tricks, we have our marks, we have our way of getting things done. We have our way of finding love and then sabotaging it, too. We are women, doing what women do best. And no man can stop us.

Group Dynamics

Sex?

I had accidentally left my phone ringer on, which is why I woke up to a phone call at 7:52 am on a Sunday morning, followed by the above text. I was still feeling bemused and slightly sleepy as I ogled the laconic text which, I must admit, intrigued me. It was coming from a guy that I thoroughly enjoy fucking, and knowing him, he probably still thought it was Saturday night.

Hmmmm I replied. Mostly because I’m a freak, but also because, well, why not? Why not start the day with a bang? Even if he is coked up and oozing Hennessy out of pores, and I’m completely sober. That could be an interesting experience.

I can bring ***** Those few stars filling in for the letters of some girl’s name, she being a tertiary party in my sexual relationship, but also best friend and occasional sexual partner of the guy I fuck. Now, I have to admit, being the freak that I am, that it had always crossed my mind. I had always thought about fucking her, mostly because I knew that she had fucked him, and I fuck him, and, well, doesn’t it make sense, because, y’know, I’m hot, and she’s hot, and he’s hot, and we all love fucking, so if you take all that and sprinkle a little bit of cocaine on top and then douse it with Hennessy:

ok

I ran to the bathroom to freshen up and make myself some coffee before disrobing appropriately and draping myself across my bed in my bra and my panties and my sleepy morning eyes while I waited for them to come over. I was excited, mostly because this is the kind of thing that dreams are made of. This is the kind of thing that I wish every lover I had would be down for, but even after twenty seven years of fuckery on this planet, it seems that the mystical three way is still so elusive for so many people. Me? I’ve done it before, clunkily so at times, but definitely never at 8am, and also never while totally sober. Three ways seem to occupy the realm of ‘totally drunk and fucked up on drugs’ sexual acts, but not today.

They stumbled in my room moments later, flushed and rowdy in the bright morning light. They were still fucked up on blow and booze, passing a bottle of Hennessy among us, but I was bright eyed and bushy tailed as they perched on the edge of my bed. I had fucked him many times before, in a state similar to this, but she was a new element to the fuckery. As he cozied up along side me, as I was all clad in my panties and my panting expectation. We chatted, much like people chat, to break through the initial moments of awkwardness and sexual initiation.

“She’s nervous,” he said to me, his arms wrapped around me, me around him, and her on the edge of the bed.

“Come here,” he said to her, disentangling himself from me and yanking her pants down. She looked nervous as her clothes came off, but she gave no resistance while I watched him disrobe her. None of us were chatting nervously as different layers hit the floor, and then suddenly she was naked, next to me, in the bed. So I did the only thing that came to my mind at the moment. I reached over. I touched her. Lightly on the arm, and then folding into each other with kissing while he watched.

The beginning was sweet and simple just like that, but everything was so fast as he went down between our knees alternatively while we kissed. It was a juggling of positions and the addition of my hitachi wand that made everything wonderful, with her on top of me while I nuzzled her tits and he licked my pussy and she used the wand. She loved using my wand, and I could tell because it was only a few minutes before she started cumming like crazy, still stradling me, with him on my pussy, and her writhing on top. It was wonderful to lie there, myself likewise careening through ecstasy as she crammed the wand even more intensely onto her clit.

We were merely minutes into what was going to be hours of fucking as he lifted her off me and started fucking us alternatively as she continued to thrust into the vibrator. Cycling through a variety of positions, settling into her eating me out while he fucked her from behind, all of us throbbing in mutually induced pleasure. Her eating me out, moaning into my crotch, and using the vibrator while he fucked her, coming again and again. Him fucking me with the vibrator on my clit, making me come like crazy while she watched. Him fucking me while she fingered my ass and sucked my toes. Him fucking her while I use the vibrator and cum. Him on top of her, fucking her, wrapping his fingers around her throat, turning to me and saying, “Wanna watch her go crazy?” as he tightens his grip and she starts to squeal, “No, no!” Him fucking me while she was sitting on the edge of the bed, doing her hair again like nothing was happening. All of us lying there, kissing and cuddling, the chaos of sex subsiding into the past.

The aftermath of fuckery was dizzying, filled with the heaving sighs of satisfaction and the as yet unabated pursuit of pleasure. I’d seen her cum at least four times already, and he was covered in sweat, as we lay on either side of him, still tangled up and sticky. Still petting. Still purring. I had forgotten for a moment how fucked up they still were, until one of them reached for that ever present bottle of Hennessy.

She turned to me and asked, “So?” I knew what that question meant, as ten o’clock started creeping into my bedroom. “You had fun with me?” she continued.

I laughed. The two of them were silly and still voracious. “Yeah,” I replied.

“Dude, chill out!” he snapped at her.

“Ah, what, I just wanted to know if she liked sleeping with me!” she retorted. They were beginning to put themselves back together, bickering with each other as they pulled on various garments and reassembled themselves for the rest of the day.

“She doesn’t even sleep with women. She’s not bi like you, she’s just a freak,” he said.

“Yeah, that’s true, but you were still better than the last chick I had a threesome with. That bitch was straight joyless and unfun.” I said. Ego validation is cheap, and the cost of seeing them fighting in scenario like this wasn’t something I was interested in so early in the morning.

“Aw, thank you!” she cooed at me, beaming somehow even after all of this. His response to that, of course, was to push me back on the bed and start kissing me. I was still fully naked, watching them get dressed in the mid morning light.

“Aw, you guys, I’m gonna get jealous,” she whined after a few moments. He grimaced, and I laughed.

“It’s okay, baby girl, I’ll kick him out and it can be just you and me if you want,” I said as he got up.

“Hey, can you give us a ride back?” he asked, ignoring my clever quip.

“Oh, you guys don’t want to walk the five blocks back to your house?”

“Hell no.”

“Fine,” I said, pulling myself up and into some clothes, the smell of her pussy still all over my face and hands. We hopped in my car, and I drove them and their half empty bottle of Hennessy five blocks over to their house, where they did god knows what for the rest of the day. Me? I went home, showered off, and went to my friend’s house for breakfast, where I grinned gleefully and recounted the sordid details of having been woken up at 8 am by two people who wanted to come over to my house and fuck me. Sundays don’t really get any better than that.

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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. My hand is so slippery as it slinks through your drawers, seeking flesh, seeking just the smallest amount of flesh, gripping on flesh, fingers around flesh. Flesh that tastes like you. Just like you. And I would like to taste you, so I slip down to the ground so you can bury yourself in me. In my mouth. Your dick in between these luscious red lips, which just moments ago were spitting tomes of poetry about how much I love you, oh baby, but that now are couched so comfortably on your dick. Your pretty fucking dick. And you moan, just like I knew you would. With your dick in my mouth. My lips on your cocks. My hands still fluttering, tugging balls, rubbing ass, while you streak fingers through my hair and you moan. You just keep on moaning, and I keep on sucking. This room is just teeming with pleasure. And you are just throbbing, perched on the edge of the bed, thrusting the back of my head fast on your crotch. Because we could do this forever. Me, leaning in, feeling that point at the back of my throat that your dick keeps slamming into, and you, lost in pleasure, lost from the world, reeling back into pleasure while I hold your hand and take you there. We are sinning in the best way possible, so I look in your eyes right before they role to the back of your head. And I know that you love me. Even if it’s not true, I still know that you love me, because your love is splattering its way all across my face, sticky, and icky, and groaning, and spraying straight in my eye. And my hair. All over my cheeks and these pert, red lips, these scions of cum. I am dirty. You are laughing. There is a snake in my eye, and it is yours, dribbling with spit and the handiwork of a woman who knows what she’s doing.

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.

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.