Catholic Fantasy

I’m a naughty little girl with my hands down my panties. Just slightly, not too much, with my fingers slipped slightly just down the front. And I am licking my lips. Almost moaning, but not quite yet, as I am waiting for you to walk through the door. And catch me with this look on my face. And this force in my chest, which is tapping slightly in the rush and the excitement and the anticipation of the fear when you holler, “What the fuck are you doing?” But you’ll know what I’m doing, with hand in my panties, caressing slightly, also glowing, kind of moistened when you catch me. I’m a bad girl, and you know it. Don’t you? Which means that the only appropriate response is for you to undo your belt and unwrest it from your pants. Hold it taut and turn me over, for a lashing. Yes, why don’t you give me a lashing? Because you need to punish me for touching myself. Because I am a sinful child, and when the sweat breaks across your brow because you have worn yourself out with lashing me: then fuck me. Violently, horrifically, passionately. Just fuck me. Because I need to learn my lesson, and you’re the one to teach me. Pleasure is not a solitary pursuit in this household – is what you’ll tell me. And I’ll smile, because I already knew it was true. I just wanted you to fuck me, didn’t I? Because I am a sinful little girl.

Riot Nights

We are holding hands, and this city is burning. Walking down the black top with glass shattered everywhere, and we are it. With our bikes and our face masks and our pockets full of spray paint. There are weapons in our hands, and our minds are weapons against this fetid system. We are not weak. We are not sleeping. We are dodging amongst the other black clad figures that weave through the middle of the street. Blocking traffic. Scaling onto freeways. Fires blazing. Windows smashing. Look here! The cops! Lines and lines of cops, helicopters over head. And, “where are we going?” is what they ask next. Where are we going.

And I am holding your hand. I know it’s you because it is you, and no one else can tell it’s us beneath these masks and in this black. We are on fire, and the image of shady figures moving into neon lit stores, looting paint and new cell phones and bottles of booze. This is happening. This is right now. This is our moment, and this is us. Kiss me. 

I am experiencing the hot flash of eroticism induced by chaos and burning trash cans. This is our fleeting moment, people bleating in the streets about anything. The dubious characters with their hands in their pockets and their invisible faces, but we know what the motive is: destroy everything. Burn it to the ground. Kill this fucking system. Now. NOW. NOW!!!

There is no other moment than right now. This will never happen again. We are here, or we are nowhere, and if we’re nowhere, then we’re complicit in the crime of apathy. And everyone I know is here right now. Every person here is beautiful. We are all on fire – it’s that rabid look in their eyes. The glistening glimmer of anarchy and the promise of “we can do whatever the fuck we want.” This is madness, but this our madness, and that’s why it matters. It is not the controlled chaos of corporations or the finely tuned disorder of bureaucratic oppression. This is us, and we are the people. This is us, baby, just you and me. We can do whatever we want. We are criminals in an old system that is being deleted by a new order that exalts us as heroes. We are the saviors of these streets. Just you and me. 

How could I not be here, and how could I not be with you. We are in this together, and these are the things we will tell our children about. They will fetishize us. They will glorify us, all 350 of us, all 1,000 of us, all these few brave souls who like the riots of the 60’s were romanticized. And I will live to tell the tale. I saw the bad people in the streets, breaking things, and I rode with them. I saw the signs, I heard the chants. I screamed with them, too. I was afraid, at moments, when row after row after row of riot cops came chomping at the bit. The helicopters overhead. But we were in it together, while the rest of the city slept. While the rest of this ignorant fucking city slept. We did it for them and for their children, even when they weep when they see the streets filled with everything broken tomorrow morning. The world needs this. What else would be if this didn’t happen? Complacent with a broken system that oppresses the voiceless? Ah, but you see, that’s just it – we are no longer voiceless. We are screaming in the streets. We are breaking things. We are stealing things. Listen to me. Hear me! Your morality is a fetid thing on nights like this. People are dying in the streets, but we are out here living while you cower at home. But, go ahead. Be a coward. I will be brave enough for all of us.

By the time it’s over, you won’t even know it happened. This is an hour of destruction that will linger on your inner city work commute for weeks to come. You will see us for much longer than that. If you’re not here now, then you’re never here, and you have missed it. You have been left behind by history and those brave enough to change it. 

And I am still holding his hand, and I look at him, because he loves me. With the sound of these screams, and the chop of the helicopter, the breaking of glass, the spraying of cans, and this is it. We are here. We are inside of history right now, just him and me. You are not here to ruin it, so he kisses me. We are knocking at future’s door with a hammer and an ax, and we are angry. Together.

Take It Off

It has been years, hasn’t it, and while most people would be strutting down some sunny sidewalk, hand in hand, and all those plans for the future, I’m still just sitting here wondering if he’ll ever text me back. Ever. Or if the last time I saw him was the last time I’ll ever see him for the rest of my life, which is likely, but not completely probable. Most people would be talking about babies by now, and I’m still wondering why I saw that used condom on his bedroom floor, which didn’t exactly bother me. It was more that I felt a sudden stab of relief that at least he had reached the point in his life where he was wearing condoms with all the other girls, which is what I’ve been begging him to do for a few years now.

“Wear a fucking condom!” 

But not with me, though. That’s okay, and then we can wander off in opposite directions for a few months before coming back for a perfunctory fuck in the back of his van. Take that condom off, baby. It’s me, baby. Don’t you remember me, baby? Thank you for texting me on Thursday and fucking me on Friday. That was awful nice of you, baby, and I’ll call you in three months after your baby mama jumps town with your kid, and I’ll hold you while you take the condom off. But you don’t have to worry, baby, you can take the condom off but I’ll still never have your baby. I can promise you that, and even while I think about all the other people who come into the same bed, and all the other hands I’ve held, and everyone else who keeps the condom on, but this is true love, so take the condom off and keep on calling whenever the fuck you want. I’ll call you back later, I’m busy right now. I’m usually busy right now, but I’ll call you later. Don’t sweat it.

Oakland Protests in Solidarity with Ferguson: Looters at Smart & Final around midnight (photo cred @ticocc on Instagram); Metro PCS store at 8th & Broadway completely cleaned out by looters (photo cred @violentfanon on Twitter); 580 shut down by protesters around 9pm (photo cred @iamcaps on Instagram); safe in street at 8th & Broadway (photo cred @anemalone on Instagram) A lot of people decry the vandalism and violence in the protests that have happened, but those are the people who have the luxury of not being frightened by a society that condones the murder of young men of color. We all suffer.


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Oakland Protests in Solidarity with Ferguson: Looters at Smart…









Oakland Protests in Solidarity with Ferguson: Looters at Smart & Final around midnight (photo cred @ticocc on Instagram); Metro PCS store at 8th & Broadway completely cleaned out by looters (photo cred @violentfanon on Twitter); 580 shut down by protesters around 9pm (photo cred @iamcaps on Instagram); safe in street at 8th & Broadway (photo cred @anemalone on Instagram)

A lot of people decry the vandalism and violence in the protests that have happened, but those are the people who have the luxury of not being frightened by a society that condones the murder of young men of color. We all suffer.

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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. Not because of anything he says, and not because of anything he does. And who even knows if he’s even vaguely interested in sleeping with me. He surely doesn’t feel these flames of passion like the lighter flash to the wick of some pipe bomb. He likes, me sure, but it’s not like this for him. This is a one sided thing, this unhinging sensation of desire. And I am crumbling on the inside because of it. I am falling apart, great big chunks of hair are clumping out, my fingernails are broken and my eyes are puffy. I look terrible because of him, but his dick is my drug and I am addicted. I am constantly fiending. I am running around like an idiot, looking for him. Where is he. And how can I get him to love me. Even though he will ruin me – he has ruined me before, and he will do it again, not out of malice or bitterness but because that’s what he does. That’s how the world works. This is how things are, the way they will be: he ruins me. Constantly. And I let him do it, too. Because this is my sexually compulsive behavior. He is my vice. He is the blade of the knife that I am driving into my own back, but it’s him, isn’t it. It’s the moments when we’re lying naked on top of the sheets, and his sweat and my sweat on my lips. When he holds me like it means something to him – like it means anything to him at all! And I believe like a fool, like that orgasm he just gave me was the greatest gift a man could give a woman. Greater than diamonds. Greater than love. Greater than the two of us, and it felt so much like love. I believe it so much. And him? I don’t even know if he’s aware that love exists, but I go for it anyways. So that I can feel satiated in this small moments, with his arm on my hand and the soft words that he mutters carry so much weight. They mean nothing to him, but my heart is rapid as he says those soft things. I am believing them, like a fool, and he is the false prophet of my romantic disillusionment, and I am completely okay with that. I am holding on to him for right now, until he flutters out the door and I am left desperate and broken and embarrassed in this wretched city without him. I am a childless mother, and it is because of him. But that’s okay because I love him.

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.”