The Things We Do Immediately Before and After Fucking

It’s not the fucking that matters, it’s the time spent
together immediately before and after sex that really counts. The fucking is
the nothing of the whole situation, the least interesting detail. It takes the
least effort out everything that you’re doing, kind of like jogging or
reorganizing your sock drawer. It’s a small part of the whole scenario, because
how much time do you spend with a person before and after fucking? And how much
time do you actually spend fucking? I’m talking about sex like a handshake, but
it’s the entirety of the conversation that matters. It’s the entire chunk of
time that you have carved out of the rest of your life so that you can be
there, alone, one on one, with another person. So it doesn’t really matter how
repulsive that person is, or how intimate this has become, or whether or not
you actually fuck. If the sex is good or bad. What matters is knowing that you
gave someone your time, which is so much more valuable than your body. Time
cannot be taken back. It can only be taken for granted. So go ahead and fuck
whoever you want, but spend your time carefully like dollars meted out in poker
chips, laid gently and thoughtfully on the table. Because once you lose your
time, you’ve lost it forever. A body can always be cleaned off in the shower.
So think about that next time you call me at 4:27 am. You can romanticize the
sex, but you should probably realize what is actually going on here instead.

egoer: kropotkindersurprise: 25 april 2015 – Protesters angry…





egoer:

kropotkindersurprise:

25 april 2015 – Protesters angry about the death of Freddie Gray, who was murdered by police, attack a line of parked police cars. 

Good. Honestly the people have been too civil I’m happy they are starting to fight back. I’m sorry but when this issue is STILL well and strong and not even faintly gone down, it’s time to act.

Riot videos give me boners

Denying Yourself Love Is A Cop Out For Much Worse Crimes

He never loved me. I know this now. And I knew it then, too,
but for some reason it seemed very okay. It’s very easy to be with someone who
doesn’t love you. To be surrounded by people who just don’t care. It validates
these nasty little feelings of worthlessness that hopscotch through my mind
like wanton small children at play. And that’s all very okay, because what
would I do if I had to face the fact that my lack of confidence and low self
esteem is completely ridiculous. Fairly self indulgent. Incredibly selfish.
Pointless and a waste of time. I don’t want to deal with that, so I deal with
the problem of the love that I’m not receiving from people I tell myself I care
about, and that makes everything feel so much better.

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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.”