The Value of Beauty

She’s beautiful to someone, but not to me. And when I meet the man that tells me she’s the most beautiful woman he has ever seen, I will laugh and spend at least five minutes fantasizing about crawling into his brain and examining every inch of abuse and brainwashing that has catalyzed his attraction to a woman like that. And, years later, after she breaks his heart, when they are both much older, we will all look at her and think, “Her? She’s the one that broke your heart? That girl?” And some of us will laugh, but the rest of us probably understand that there’s more to love than physical attraction.

Oh, Oakland.

Everybody in Oakland is leaving, and I am the last of a
dying breed. I am watching these people die off like flies, and while maybe one point we were all gnawing on the same rotting corpse together, instead here we are and everyone is leaving. We’ve been cursed, haven’t we? By a demon named money. When we all arrived here with some quixotic dream in our hearts, and the allure of cheap rent and citywide indifference to pretty much everything made this city seem like the city, until, of course, and here we are. Everyone is leaving. And do you know why they’re leaving? Do you know why all your quirky, artsy, half assed ambitious friends are leaving? Because what’s the fucking point of being here anymore. I hate to say it out loud, but we all know it’s true. Oakland is pointless for young artists like us. Back in the hey day (or back in any day), there was the promise of something better. There were cheap apartments and warehouse spaces and endless parties and dead end jobs and other people who were flocking here to live amidst the soot and the grime and the crime and all the ideas that out of these ashes would rise a phoenix. But instead there’s a beast in this city, and it’s ripping us apart. Because what’s the point in living here when there’s no infrastructure or cultural standard that supports the arts? That realizes that arts and the artists who create it add value to everyone’s life in this city? And instead of pricing them out, just like everyone else, we should hold onto the artists who have been here? What’s the fucking point of living in Oakland when you can save money by moving to LA and actually have the opportunity to have a successful arts career? I mean, it’s not like any artist in Oakland is exactly thriving here. Even if you’re an artist from Oakland, eventually you just go to New York or Los Angeles once you get successful. But, fuck it, why not move to New York or Los Angeles now? It certainly costs less to live there now.

Oakland is losing its color and its charisma. And by color, yes, I mean that this place is being swallowed whole by white culture. And by charisma I mean that the people who are coming here now are bland and one dimensional compared to the people who are leaving with a quickness. 

But I stand strong. I’m still fucking here. I’m still slithering through the streets of Oakland, and even as I see all my friends ditch town so that they can be beautiful and interesting someone else – don’t worry, Oakland, I will hold you down. I’m never going to leave. Fuck, I’ll probably die in your arms, Oakland. Even though I’m beginning to feel like you don’t really like me anymore and that maybe you’d rather that I move to Vallejo so that my landlord can triple my rent and cash in on this new boom. But, that’s okay. Between you and me, Oakland, we both know that this wave isn’t going last forever. When the bubble bursts (and, oh, it will burst, because how many apps with a negative cash flow can really exist in the Apple iStore? Millions, sure, but, come on.), all these new people are going to realize that they’re living in a dangerous city where they don’t belong and can’t afford to pay rent, so they’ll go crawling back to mom and dad. And those of us who are from here will be left to pick up the pieces and talk about the good old days, when Oakland had money for just a minute. It’s either that or this place just becomes Walnut Creek 2.0, so pick your poison. In the meantime, I’ll be sitting in my bedroom, smoking cigarettes, drinking alone, and keeping the bohemian dead beat dream alive, one scathing blog post at a time. I don’t know about the rest of you artsy types out there, but if you’re down to hold it down, let’s link up. 

I Am Not A Size Queen

“Pilar, I’m not a size queen,” my friend says to me.

“Well, me neither,” I reply casually.

“Really?” my friend says incredulously, giving me one of those ‘why are you lying right now’ side glances. To which I wrinkle my nose, because she doesn’t know what she’s talking about. She thinks she knows all about the dicks I have touched, but she doesn’t. Which is why she thinks I’m lying, but just because I have enjoyed my time with a few those above average dicks doesn’t mean that I can’t get off with one of those more normal looking cocks. I know in her mind she’s running down a list of all the oversized men that I have called my lover, and she is quickly scanning their crotch to see how much of a size queen I really am. I mean, okay, yeah, I can take a giant dick, but I’m not one of those dick damaged girls who can’t get off on anything less than 9″. (More like less than 6″.) 

“Look, I fuck plenty of normal guys and have a great time doing it. So what if I like a giant cock every once in a while? It’s not a steady diet, it’s just dessert.”

She looks at me and laughs. I laugh, too, because, hey, I like to laugh.

Black Sex Magic

Have you ever used magic to manipulate your lover? I have. It’s not really an easy thing to do, and it’s very psychically draining. However, after a few years of practice, I’ve gotten much better. Which is why I will be calling him back to me, but, unfortunately, the primary element has eluded me: a piece of him. I’ve been looking all over my house to see if he has left anything in my room, in my bed. So that I can use a piece of him onto which to cast my spell: a key, a piece of jewelry, a discarded piece of clothing, a bobby pin, a strand of hair, a used condom. Any of the above will work. But I cannot find a piece of him, so how will I shoot black sex magic across this city and straight into his heart? I will be out looking for him, so that I can have a piece of him, and then I will be tricking him into loving me again. And it will feel very good. 

Somebody Out There Loves Me & I Don’t Even Know It

Sometimes I wonder if there’s someone out there who loves me, but I don’t even know it. If there’s some small, quiet person out there, lurking around these streets, stuffed in the backs of these bars, on the other side of this screen, seeing me for who I really am, and also that person absolutely loves me. It’s easy to think of all the people who quietly hate me, or all the people who are standing on the sidelines and typifying me as “crazy.” But then I wonder if there’s someone out there who finds my antics endearing and charming. Just part of the total package of me. 

Because I can guarantee you that every day I see so many people that I secretly love. Well, not secretly, maybe more like “irrationally” and “in a very creepy way.” With a sudden sense of enchantment and fascination, a person like an alchemical reaction of one person plus another person equals these rising, overwhelming emotions inside of me. And does anyone feel about me the way that I feel about them. And why has no one told me. Why haven’t you told me that you love me yet? 

Here I am. All of me. On the Internet. In these bars. Sulking in my bedroom alone with no new text messages. So I sit here and refresh the Craigslist Missed Connections over and over and over again, and I find nothing new, and no one wanting me, and no reason to do any of the things I do. But I’ll trod out tonight again, looking fresh and trying to be pretty, because, who knows, maybe tonight is the night that someone new starts to love me. And I don’t even know it. 

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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. 

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.”