I was always afraid growing up. Because that’s the way that the world taught me to be: afraid. Of so many things, but, most specifically, dark alley ways, men offering me money and fame, being alone late at night, strangers and success. Success being something worth fearing because successful women have done dirty things in order to attain their success, such as walking down dark alley ways, canoodling with men who offered them money and fame, being alone late at night and hanging out with strangers. While I understand the social functionality of warning young girls against making eye contact with random men on public transportation, for all my twenty seven years of taking public transportation, and walking down public streets, and generally being an adult, I have to admit that their advice was unwarranted. Sure, some of these strangers have pulled up to me in their car in the streets of Richmond, telling me I should get in if I want some free cocaine. And some of these strangers have approached me in bars, trying to put a hand up my skirt with promises of a sexual pleasure I didn’t want. But, for the most part, the strange men I have met have mostly been innocuous, and when they haven’t been innocuous – well, I know that this is a naughty thing to say, but I’ve been fine on my own. I know that they don’t want the rest of the women to know this, because a woman doing fine on her own in society is somehow such a huge threat, but it’s true. And I wish I would have known way earlier how fine I truly could be on my own. Maybe then I wouldn’t have turned away from so many opportunities, so many invitations, so many new experiences. Maybe if society hadn’t whispered in my ear, “He’s going to drug you and rape you!” I would have walked down a different path. If every man that I encountered hadn’t already been painted as a leering villain who was going to beat me and cheat on me. Sometimes men get a bad rap, but I’ve also noticed that only certain men get a bad rap. You know what I’m talking about. The black ones. The brown ones. Those were the ones I was supposed to be afraid of, the ones lurking in dark corners with bad deeds on their lips. But, let me tell you! I have been in those dark corners, and I have looked for bad people, and more often than not there was no one there. There was no one plotting against me, or against women in general. In fact, by the time I was done looking for that bad man that my mother had warned me against I realized, plain and simple: the most frightening thing lurking in this dark corner is me. I am the beast that they fear, and there’s something empowering in that. There is so much humanity in the people that I have been taught to fear, but what should surprise you more than that is the animalism that I see in the people who claim to be the opposite of all that. Ah, yes, our white saviors, valiant with their pockets full of money and their college degrees. He’s the bad man, but my mother didn’t warn me about him at all. I think that on some level slaves fear their masters, but I am not a slave. I am not afraid of money, or status, or power, and the inherent connection between those things and the color of a man’s skin. I think my mother was wrong, and when I tell her that, she is dismayed, but it is better that way. It is better for me to know who the enemy is, and it’s better that I know that the enemy has told me to fear a certain person who is, in fact, the most human of us all. But I am the beast that my enemy fears, and I wait in the cuts, with this knife in my hand. I am the bad man, or that’s what the enemy says. And I don’t care who knows, because I have this knife in my hand, and this grin on my face, and being a bad man is so much fun, especially when you’re a woman.
An international romance right here at home.
Generally, I would never post a “movoto” link (mostly because it’s a sham site that fetishizes the Oakland experience in a completely unrealistic way), but I thought that this might relevant because, hey, haven’t I been writing about dating in Oakland for a few years now? Also, I’m a Bay native, and most of my erstwhile lovers are, too, so, if you’re looking for a more honest, albeit darker, depiction of dating in Oakland: do not click this link. Just keep scrolling. We’re fucking ruthless people, and we date that way, too. Although, “dating” might be a really strong word for that. Let’s call it “fucking” instead. So, in other news, the Fuck Feast edit of how to be a mack in Oakland: 11 Things You Need to Know Before You Fuck Someone From Oakland:
1. In order to qualify as hook up material, you have to be able to drunkenly expound on a variety of trendy topics for thirty minutes before securing someone as your fuck du jour. These topics include but are not limited to: anarchy, feminism, how much San Francisco sucks, memes on the Internet, Ferguson, gentrification, Occupy Oakland, how much tech sucks and where are we going after this to drink more.
2. Tonight’s piece of ass is probably broke, but that doesn’t mean that you’re not entitled to your one free pre-fucking drink. (This goes for all genders!) Ask, and yee shall receive.
3. Tonight’s piece of ass is probably broke, so don’t leave too many valuables lying around when you bring him or her back home.
4. Tonight’s piece of ass is probably broke, so asking for or offering cab fare/BART fare isn’t a degrading nod to prostitution, but, rather, SOP in Oakland. Have an extra $1.85 on hand just in case.
5. Tonight’s piece of ass is probably broke, but tonight’s piece of ass can probably still fast talk his or her way into half of someone else’s gram of coke, so, don’t trip, this will still be fun.
6. There’s a pretty high likelihood that tonight’s piece of ass is the friend/cousin/ex of someone that you know from somewhere, so tread lightly when it comes to the social politics of promiscuity.
7. Anal sex is pretty popular out here.
8. Definitely wear a condom. People in Oakland sleep around, and so many of these girls aren’t on birth control, so wrap it up.
9. If you don’t wear a condom, here’s a link to Planned Parenthood in West Oakland. They’ll give you free condoms when you go! Fuck it, maybe you should go today just because! Why wait until it’s too late?
10. Oaklanders are masters at the art of dodging text messages, so don’t be surprised if you don’t get any responses or incoming text messages within a week of an initial hook up.
11. And, finally: this person probably has a significant other. That’s just how we play the game out here in Oakland.
“Oh, I’ve read your blog before,” says random girl I just met five minutes ago.
“Oh…like, Oakland Alcohol?”
“That thing I posted on Bold Italic?”
“Fuck Feast. I’ve read Fuck Feast before.”
“I like it!”
“Oh. I didn’t know anyone read it.”
“Yeah, people read it.”
She has the optimistic, knowing look on her face, and I feel like maybe my reputation deceives me. Because I’m trying to look and act normal in this bar right now, aspiring to cherub-esque overtones, but it appears that I’ve been outed as a crazy sex maniac. So I smile and start backing away, because who knows what the fuck this girl has read that I’ve written. Hey, I’m shy, but, also, eek, I’ve said so much stupid shit on this blog. I forgot about strangers – they’re everywhere, and I usually try to avoid them, but there they are, out there on the Internet, clicking on my silly little links. I think that maybe she wants to talk to me about something, but I’m a total freak so I find a way back to the bar where I order a double shot of anything while waiting for the social anxiety to subside.
But that feeling subsides pretty quickly as I start scan the bar and play that guessing game where I look at every guy and wonder which one gives the best head, and if he would get emotionally attached or not, and if I should go talk to him to take him home. Or maybe not, maybe I’ll just keep sitting here and hope that the guy with the best head game talks to me first. That sounds good.
The problem with being promiscuous, and also the problem with having a lot of promiscuous friends, is that any time anybody in my social circle starts fucking/dating/whatever-ing a new dude, the gossip train leaves the station. Ok, first I text my best friend and let her know that some girl is fucking this dude that I used to bone. Then I tell my other best friend that the girl he used to fuck is now dating my old flame. Although, sometimes I have to tell my best friend that this girl who was fucking her exboyfriend is now fucking my exboyfriend, and is that because she’s just jocking our style? Or is she just a huge fan of our leftovers? But sometimes, my friend starts to fuck someone that I know some other triflin ass bitch was with, and I have to wonder, “If he was down to smash that other ho, is he really worth your time? Because look at how nasty that bitch is, and if he could regularly stick his dick in that – you can do better.” Which happens to me, too, and when there’s someone new I have to do that quick social scan of “how many of his friends have I already had sex with.” And, then, I wonder, “Is he doing that to me, too?” At which point we all just kinda suck up, and you can stick that pussy on a plate, put in the microwave, and zap it for 45 seconds. It’ll be all warm and gooey at that point, and not really as good as it was from the get, but, hey, that’s what people do with their leftovers so whatever.