May 20, 2013
It’s Irrational

See some girl I don’t like at the bar last night, so I turn to my friends and announce it like someone of social relevance has walked in the door. 

“I don’t like that girl.”

Which quickly becomes the all consuming activity of the evening while I resort to the slyest ways of throwing shade while simultaneously trying to act like I’m actually interested in whatever it is this conversation is supposed to be about while subtly keeping my eye on that one hater ass bitch.

***

I watch my friend get ungodly wasted and after eight minutes in the bathroom with her boyfriend after hours, I ask, “Well, how was it?”

“It was whatever, but don’t tell him I said that,” she says in a sickly slurry way before falling off her stationary bar stool. 

***

Lately life has filled itself up with the results of good decisions, positive people and stability of emotional, financial and social ilk. This has made my life increasingly boring, and as I begin to search slowly for interesting ways to fuck everything up, I’ve come to realize that maybe I should just clean my house and keep going to school because at this point doing drugs has ceased to be revelatory, and also wafting through a sea of exboyfriends hoping that somebody at some point will put effort into helping me destroy something beautiful has proved to be fruitless, and I have to fuck shit up on my own this time.

May 20, 2013

partytilyoudance:

Stop looking at me like that if you don’t mean it. Stop telling me I’m beautiful if you’re going home to someone else. Stop holding my hand, dancing so close and whispering in my ear if you’re just going to pretend it never happened in the morning. I may seem tough, but I can only take so much. You’re all the same. I’m tired.

May 19, 2013
The Bartender’s Guide to Your Basic Social Skills

Lounging around on the other side of the bar has afforded me a unique perspective on human interaction, sexuality and the inherent roll of alcohol therein. From my side, it’s easy to forget that many of these asshole are merely masquerading around pretending to not be the culturally sheltered, social anxiety little twats they are who know little about they way the world works and will be forever confused and/or crippled by their inability to smoothly integrate into normal society. Instead, relegated to the social frustrations of not getting laid by the bar, a failure that leaves them empty handed and alone at the end of the night, and merely inspires greater heights of assholeishness and discomfort. 

I’ve come to realize that encountering someone at the bar who can hold it together, wear snappy clothes, engage in witty yet tempered conversation, handle their booze and come across as a well adapted, genuine human being is a rare feat, and congratulations to those who can maintain this formula, not merely at the bar but also in other aspects of life, such as at work and in relationships. I’m not sure what kind of life path a person has to walk down in order to achieve this pithy level social championship, but seeing someone hit on someone else, falter slightly, suffer rejection but still be able to walk around the bar with confidence is quite an accomplishment. 

Or maybe I’m being too quick to judge, and having game in every sense of the word is overrated. But I, personally, prefer talking to someone who doesn’t lose their shit as soon as I walk away. 

May 18, 2013
Touch & Touch & Touch & Touch & Touch & Go

You are just another character in my meandering tale of selfishness and self indulgence. Nobody will care about what happens to you at the end of the story. All they are interested in is the sensationalism of the fuck and the quick decay of emotional stability splayed messy across your used to be tepid day to day. But, no, now I have littered your waking moments with my caustic refusal to conform to your idea of what’s supposed to happen after we’ve started fucking, and instead of indulging your emotional whims, and returning your phone calls, and meeting your mother, I’ve shattered you, and your delusions, and there you are, a little bit less together than when I find you. And you are no longer my problem. You are discarded, a forgotten character like a blip on the radar of my sexual excursions, and hopefully some other woman will find you and put you back together.

I, on the other hand, have a story to tell, and you are no longer a part of it.

May 17, 2013
The Curse of Self Confidence

We don’t love the people we fuck, we just bang away and occasionally succumb to the fantasy that this delusional coupling might in some way resemble the sham of love that is expertly marketed to us via Hollywood movies and female razor ads. It’s not tragic, it’s just systemic, but the ennui that accompanies the mindlessness of copulation is the most deadening thing of all. Wake up in the morning and feel nothing while escaping the slurry memories of the night before. Write down names like ingredients in the recipe for disaster. Who am I dumping today and who am I pursuing tomorrow, and then to what means? What happens after I fuck him? Am I just going to keep fucking him? And then at some point it stops, and it’s rinse, wash and repeat while I spew out spiteful stories of yet another exboyfriend subjecting me to the scandalousness of his fetid, broken heart. What a weak man. That is not a man. That is weakness. 

Drink alcohol, my sanctified cure all for the lack of remorse that all of this is making me feel. There is Jesus in my bones, and what would I give but to be the whore that fucked Christ himself. 

Martyr me, I couldn’t give less of a fuck about all this.

May 17, 2013
Stephanie!!

Stephanie!!

(Source: stephaniesarley)

May 16, 2013
Last Call, Last Resort Part 2

My phone’s buzzing again, but I pay it no mind as I drift deeper into these covers and the ecstasy of post coital skin on skin contact at 2am, and I’m not even that drunk, and neither is he, and when I glance over my shoulder he smiles back at me. And I know his name, and he knows mine, and as I turn back around I can see the name on the phone, quivering in desperation. 

I know what time it is, and I know what’s going through his mind as out there in the cold and the dark and all alone at the tail end of the night with not even a drink at a bar to keep him company, but I laugh and fall asleep and wake up the next morning as my companion is leaving. We say goodbye, and it’s fine, and as soon as he’s out the door. I grab my phone. 

6 new text messages.

I read them all and laugh and say nothing. If any of those boys had the courage to text or call at 10pm rather than 2am, maybe I wouldn’t be slowly losing respect for them as I scroll through the various, “U up?” and “where r u?” text messages. Yes, I was up, and I was at home, but I was with someone else, someone better than you.

Delete, delete, delete. There’s nothing quite like desperation at 3 in the morning that makes me never want to fuck you again. Because if not me, then into what haggard arms are they falling the rest of the time? 

Better luck next time. Hopefully I’m drunker and lonelier and that works out for you.

May 15, 2013
Last Call, Last Resort Part 1

Slumped over in the front seat and slurring my words as after hours all nighter pursuits slowly fail into the mass melee that is me, stranded in this car and unattached, picking out which five boys to send the ungodly unsubtle 2am text message, “Wut r u up 2.” 

“Where are we going, Pilar?” I don’t remember who’s in the driver’s seat, or who’s in the back seat, but I’m in shotgun, and whoever is squished back there behind me, they’re making out which only adds to the rancor of my texting and the urgency of the situation.

“I don’t know, I’ll figure it out in a minute, just keep driving.” Everything feels fuzzy and blurry because there I am, drunk again, and after an evening’s worth of quippy conversation while leaning languidly over half sipped Manhattans, my unabashed propensity for finding anything willing and then fucking it has heretofore been unfulfilled. 

This isn’t vapid.

This isn’t vapid.

This isn’t vapid. 

I have self respect, and my need for sex like Prozac pills is a fool proof remedy for all that ails me. The touch of a stranger’s hand and then fuck the crazy out of me. I can feel my eyes sagging manically across the situation as I wait for the ding and the light of my phone to alert me that, yes, there is some nobody out there willing to put up with 45 minutes of heavy petting, intermittent conversation and sloppy, half hearted crotch thrusting before the self defeat of sleep and waking up in the morning feeling dirty and unwelcomed. 

Who will take the bait? 

“Pilar, we have to go somewhere, they’re all just going home.”

“Okay, fine, take me home!” I snap with the wrath of an unsatiated woman. Sink defiantly into my sleep, knowing that watching porn alone and passing out drunkenly with my panties around my ankles and my hands smelling like my own pussy isn’t going to make for a very happy Pilar come noon tomorrow, or whenever it is that I wrest myself from the arms of sleep. 

This isn’t an admission of defeat as I gaze out the window and glare at my blank phone. 6 people! I had texted 6 people! And none of them will take me? How have the odds stacked against me so cruelly?

Oh, wait, nevermind, “No, actually, can you take me back over that way?”

The fish has bitten. 3 minute response time. Not bad.

I just showed these bitches how it’s done.

May 14, 2013
The Opportunity Cost of Being a Bitch

Here’s something that’s annoying: when one of my good friends comes up to me and says, “So&so really likes you! So&so likes your writing! So&so wants to hang out with you!” I mean, that’s cool, but if I know so&so in my life in any way, it always strikes me as sketchy that so&so has to defer to my good friend in order to relay a message rather than telling me him/herself. If you like me, then why do I have to hear it from a third party? This isn’t international diplomacy, this is the age of Facebook, Twitter and Instagram. I’ll follow you back, you can message me, you can say hi to me when you see me, and if there’s anything more than that, then go ahead and let me know. 

All this 3rd party bullshit confuses me. Does so&so expect that I might go postal and try to hit him/her in the face when he/she tells me that he/she enjoys my writing? That’s illogical. I’m not going to do that.

When I receive these 3rd party messages that so&so likes me/my writing/my fashion/my ass or whatever, it just makes me think, “Damn, so&so is a bitch who can’t say it to my face. What a fucking coward. Also, maybe a liar, because what kind of manipulative bullshit has inspired this runaround of please tell Pilar I feel this way?” 

And that’s honesty. If so&so told me him/herself, it’d be chill, but an overly long Facebook message that might meet rejection merits more respect than this medieval he-said-she-said bullshit. Man up.

May 13, 2013
This Is the Difference Between You and Me

Game for a dude: everything in the whole world

Game for a girl: I think, therefore I am, therefore people have sex with me, and the thinking part isn’t even that big of a deal.

***

“You gotta treat me like a goddess.” ~her

“Then you gotta treat me like a god!” ~him

“That’s not how it works.” ~her

***

“What’s the female equivalent of comparing dick sizes? Is it, like, seeing whose pussy is the deepest?” ~friend

“Nah, it’s more like comparing who has smallest, tightest pussy. But I’ve never done that with my friends.” ~me

“Why not?”

“I don’t know, I’ve just never been drunk in my bedroom with all my girlfriends sticking our fingers up each others’ pussies to determine whose is the best. But a lot of my male friends fuck a lot of my female friends, so I get the review.”

“So who has the nicest pussy?”

“Ugh, I’m not going to tell you, but what I will tell you is that I don’t have any male friends with small penises, which is relief because those guys are assholes.”

May 12, 2013
Happy Mommy Issues Day

While straddling the obligatory Mothers’ Day conversations that alternate between “My mom is a wonderful, upstanding, beautiful woman” and “That stupid bitch!” Trying to feebly maneuver between other people’s mommy issues and, yet again, realizing that the boys who ascribe to the latter method of mother interaction might be less inclined to make stable, responsible, considerate sexual partners, because there’s nothing quite like a mommy issue to make a boy either abusive towards woman or overly clingy in an emotionally broken kind of way. Reminder: I am not your mother, and it is not my job to fill the hole in your heart that she left there. So I’m sorry if she abandoned/beat/neglected/coddled/manipulated/mind fucked you, but just because the only thing I have in common with your mother is our gender…well, time to go back to therapy, honey, because I’m not the one.

May 11, 2013
The Pilar Reyes Guide to Being a Good Girlfriend (and Other Tips You Won’t Get from Cosmo)

It happens occasionally that after spending the night at your boo’s house, he has to get up early and go to work. While you, on the other hand, have a day off. He is generous enough to let you sleep in, to stay in his bed, and you are trusted enough to spend as much time as you want in his room while you gather yourself before the day starts. While it is true that you could rustle around his things, try to figure out the password for his Facebook, or look for a diary or perhaps a journal, or, fuck it, maybe even a lonely $20 bill - no. You’re not going to do that, because you’re on your good girl behavior, so rather than explicitly sabotaging the relationship, why don’t you do something nice for your boo?

You could do something along the lines of making the bed, tidying up the room (without touching too much stuff so it doesn’t look like you’re snooping, which, let’s be honest, you’re probably doing that anyways), picking up the trash and what not. 

Or, if being domestic isn’t your strong suit, you could try my favorite little trick: wash your hands, shut the door, lie down naked in the bed and start masturbating. Pull the covers up so your pheromones get hotboxed into the bed and rub your juices all on the covers and pillows. Don’t put on too much stank. You want to leave just enough scent so that he can’t consciously smell it but also that it becomes a subconscious, hidden, faint reminder of you and your sexuality. Also, it’s kinda like marking your territory. On the plus side, if for some reason he comes home earlier than you expected, playing the whole “oops, he caught me masturbating” fuck game is pretty fun, too.

After you’re done, tidy the bed up a bit, and later that night when you’re gone and he’s sleeping, he’ll have sweet dreams of your pussy juice.

Side note: not sure if this one works for dudes, seeing as, personally, I would be pretty upset if I came home to skeet covered sheets. Also, might not work for anal masturbation, so keep that in mind.

May 10, 2013

(Source: wilderanch)

May 10, 2013
Does My Sexuality Intimidate You?

I’ve heard this one a lot. Probably because I run a ‘sex’ blog, and I guess if you’re trying to hang out with someone who says, “I can fuck whoever I want” and then does - I guess I see how that’s intimidating and also slightly emasculating. Admittedly my perspective on sexuality is borrowed almost entirely from outside observations of chauvinism, but I don’t regret that. 

I can see how it’s intimidating to try to get with someone who has no problem handing you a cold, cruel, unemotional piece of rejection. Someone who relishes saying no, someone who will judge you on your sexual performance, the size of your penis and the finesse of your game. Anything in those categories that are deemed subpar will probably be made known to all immediate acquaintances and also possibly on the Internet. Ruthless, I know, but I didn’t go to college so what else am I supposed to focus my intellectual prowess upon? 

I just want all you [men I consider fucking] to know that this is something everybody does all the time, and blog or no, every time you fuck someone you are getting judged on your sexual prowess. 

I’m sorry, that came out really harsh. Strike that. What I meant to say is, this is going to happen every time you have sex. It might work out, it might not, you might fuck up, I might fuck it up, and while by no means is my game immaculate (although I do strive), the same can be said about sexuality that can be said about business, money, and all other facets of life: put the fucking work in, and it will pay off. 

I know, sometimes you’ve had too much to drink and you can’t get it up. Some days just aren’t “on” days, and things just happen really quickly. That sucks for me, but the worst thing you can do in those situations is stand up, walk away and act like I wasn’t a victim of your physical shortcomings. A little bit of communication would be appreciated, as well as some oral sex as a means of compensation for my time and energy.

If you’re someone who’s not as sexually experienced as you’d like to be, don’t worry about it. As with the above, a willingness to communicate openly goes a long way, as well as research, studying, practice and creativity in bed. 

Sure, it’s also intimidating to be with a woman who can walk into a bar and instantly be swarmed with men who want to talk to her and whom she is going to talk to because social mores dictate that she maintain a public image of congeniality and approachability. But if you’re throwing down in the sack and otherwise treating her with respect, then you shouldn’t be threatened by a little competition. If she’s keeping it tight for you, then no sweat. If you’re fucking up, you’ll find out soon enough. 

In conclusion, I would like to say, if you are threatened by my or any other woman’s sexuality (or dude’s for that matter), I just want to know: what don’t you like about knowing that your dick can give a woman a wonderful orgasm? If you don’t know how to do it, study up, and you’ll figure it out eventually. In the meantime, being with a sexually experienced, sexually liberated woman who might have had more sexual partners than you have and is also younger than you - isn’t that at least worth trying for? Also, if she’s attractive and intelligent, yeah, they don’t exactly give that away for free, you kinda have to work for it, but won’t it be worth it? 

Although there is a high likelihood that you’ll be rejected…but, meh, just be a fucking adult and move on with your life. If you wanna play with the big girls then you have to be a big kid.

May 9, 2013
I Built Myself a Press Tab