Smarter Than the Next Ho

“What kind of stuff do you read?” He’s asking me as we’re standing in the magazine section of Walgreens after he’s picking up his eczema medication.

“Ugh, I don’t know. I don’t really read books anymore. Just magazines.”

“Magazines? Like, what? Elle? Cosmo?”

I laugh at him as we’re standing beneath this too bright light, and we’ve both already been drinking. Me with this bottle of wine tucked tightly inside my jacket. And him with his eczema medication and his public school education, to which I smile and reply, “Bloomberg Businessweek and The New Yorker. Elle magazine? Pfft, no thanks, I’m trying to be smarter than the next bitch.”

After which we shuffle off back to his house to sip down that half pint of tequila, and of course I shouldn’t expect the world to expect me to be literate beyond a fifth grade level. Although, Elle magazine? Are you for real? It’s become apparent that in his mind I am no more than just a basic bitch, to which I respond accordingly by smashing and dashing and smoking with some other handsome young gentleman a couple hours from now. 

Phone Sext Operator

I can’t tell what his intentions are. As I’m sitting here, fielding his text messages, which arrive sporadically, and he’s erratically saying the kinds of things that I would like to read on my telephone while I’m waiting for my toes to dry at the nail salon. I’ll click on that YouTube link, and I’ll volley back and forth in strictly Emoji format, although, I still can’t tell – is this some sort of game, because it would be useful for me to know if he’s the kind of person who knows how to manipulate people the same way I do. Or is this just another childish bid by another childish man for my attention, and part of me is thinking that maybe I should start charging for my services. Maybe I should be making money off of all these random guys sending me pictures of their new fades, or their new shoes, or their new kid. Although, then I remember that’s why God made Tinder, so I put my phone back in my bag and wait for my toes to dry for a few more minutes while reading The New Yorker, and I smile at the thought of him thinking about the next thing that he’s going to send me.

Moan of Arc

These boys love me. Or maybe I’m just being delusional, but I’ve managed to convince myself that I’m everybody’s hero because I have made the valiant decision to sleep around and not give a fuck. Because, let’s be honest, we’ve all seen those “no fucks given” memes circulating around the Internet, but, I’d like to let you know – yes. Yes, you care. You care way too fucking much, but, if only you could train yourself to not give a fuck (in the truest sense possible), then you’d be out here, slutting around with the rest of us sluts. And, let me tell you – it is so much god damn fun. These boys love us. Like, really, really love us. They fucking adore us, and, yes, in fact, we are heroes because who else has the balls to throw all caution to the wind, to abandon morality and prim and proper social standards of behavior, to be out there, every night, living this life? We do, and that’s why we’re heroes, because if we aren’t out here doing whatever we want today, then tomorrow’s women won’t have the opportunity to do whatever the fuck they want. My mistakes pave the way for tomorrow’s good decisions. So, sure, you can put me on a crucifix for all the bad deeds I’m doing tonight, but, rest assured, there will be a large crowd standing around, waiting to see if this just another instance of sexually charged chicanery or if I resurrect myself after the third day.

Although, there’s also the mathematical possibility that for every Jesus that hangs on a cross, there are two sinners at either side who truly deserved this shit. But who’s to say what a savior looks like?

The Female Misogynist

She is a wolf in sheep’s clothing, or, no – she’s backstabbing bitch in a miniskirt and the usual trappings of what we would all consider to be an average, run of the mill woman. But much like someone who has been broken by their own insecurities and inability to live up to the idea of a respectable woman, she utilizes the common theme of misogyny in society to tear down those around her. To put down other women. To bring them down to her own level of insecurity, and instead of adhering to the feminist ideal of uplifting other women around her, so that other women may have opportunities to achieve economic and emotional independence, this is the type of woman who stalks around on the left shoulder of other people in this room. Whispering things like, “That girl’s a slut. That girl looks like shit. That girl will never amount to anything. That girl is worthless.” Reiterating the classic anti-feminist mantras that too many men are already saying, and, instead of fighting against that disease, she has contracted a rather curious case of Stockholm Syndrome. Which seems at first incomprehensible, but it’s important to understand that the female misogynist is the ultimate idiot because rather than warring against a society that is trying to keep her down, she indulges the enemy’s rhetoric to aid in their ambition to keep woman as a whole down. Sure, she might think that she’s smarter than the rest of us, but the fact of the matter is that she is much more stupid than even any of us can fathom. Because when we win, women like her will still be at the bottom, a beast that is brow beaten by the losing team. And there will be a price to pay for betraying your own kind.

Good Morning, Telephone

There’s nothing quite like waking up to text messages from three thirst ass dudes to make getting out of bed in the morning that much easier. Which is saying something, because I usually have a really difficult time getting out of bed, and spending thirty minutes swiping left on Tinder is, for the most part, more stimulating than a cup of coffee. What can I say – judging other people first thing in the morning on a sexual level really gets me going. And it’s something that I do all day long, scrolling endlessly through Instagram, fully immune to the fact that people are trying to induce jealousy in their followers by posting artlessly staged pictures of their so-called beautiful lives. Happiness isn’t something that can be quantified by the number of likes you get on your selfies, but, hey, I don’t take selfies, so maybe I’m wrong about that one. Although, as life goes on, and I walk down the street, maybe there is something distinctly relevant about other people in this world and their need for attention. Which is something I refuse to indulge in, but, if for just one minute, I could take the time out of my day to respond to that text message. To swipe right. To double tap on that photo. Maybe this will truly improve the quality of the lives of those around me, although, in the digital era, I’m not the one to blame for training people to tie their self worth to cell phone notifications, so why should I be the one who has to put in all the dirty work? Maybe modern technology should have stopped at the iPod, patted itself on the back and not fallen into the trap of wasting time inventing online gadgets intended to cull advertising dollars while doing little to help this world truly be a better place.

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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.”

The Fuck Feast Guide to Whether You Should Fuck That Guy You Know You’re Not Supposed To

~because Teen Vogue isn’t breaking it down with enough realness~

Society is constantly telling us, among other things, that there are certain people that we just shouldn’t fuck. It’s rude, it’s embarrassing, it’s desperate, it’s imprudent, it’s social suicide, it’s politically catastrophic. Well, you know what? Just because you shouldn’t fuck him doesn’t mean you can’t, and because it’s someone you shouldn’t fuck, you know what that means: it’s probably fun as fuck! So, we’d like to give you a quick guide to the pro’s and con’s of fucking that guy that you just know you shouldn’t. (Warning, this is kinda gross. I know, right??)

Your Sister’s/Best Friend’s/Mom’s/Roommate’s Boyfriend (or, even better, Husband!)

They call it sloppy seconds for a reason, but let’s admit it: if you’re in your 20’s, you’re always going to be someone’s sloppy seconds. So don’t let that reason stop you. On the other hand, nothing tastes better than forbidden fruit. The only downside to fucking homegirl’s main man is that you have to be ready to completely forfeit your friendship, and, like any break up, you might find that some of your formerly mutual friends are taking sides that might slightly ostracize you. If you’re just hanging out for a one night stand, you can always rectify the situation with the whole, “Sluts before Fucks! Don’t let men come between us!” bullshit. If you’re going for a full on relationship – well, you can’t get mad when he starts fucking your other best friend. So, before you go down this path, ask yourself: is his dick worth it? I mean, homeboy better be throwing down something fierce in the bedroom. And if he’s not, then revert to the “Don’t let men come between us” bullshit. It might not work, but it also might work. Be prepared to wear the “homewrecker” mantle for a moment, you scurrilous cunt, you! Read more →