Body Hair

It’s a great debate, of sorts, and one that makes for interesting bar talk. Sitting there, considering the implications of unshorn armpit and leg hair in the age of neatly preened, high gloss Photoshop images of hairless models lying around languidly in bikinis. The double standard for men and women is keenly noted, seeing as men are allowed to walk around looking like hairy beasts throughout their lives (unless, of course, they’re gay men in Miami, or that’s what I was told). Women, however – we’re expected to shave our entire bodies from the eyelashes down. While some of my friends have taken on the body hair debate (and this doesn’t even include the pubic region) as a feminist cause, refusing to shave their legs and armpits, I, as a feminist who shaves her legs and armpits, feel a bit stuck in between. While I understand that it’s “our bodies, our choices,” there’s still this part of me that has been conditioned to obey the American Media Standards of Attractiveness as enforced by television ads and my innate desire to want to be desired by another human being. It’s a natural instinct, really, and while I realize that just because I don’t feel oppressed doesn’t mean that I’m not actually oppressed, as an ethnic woman with coarser, darker body hair, there’s something a bit comforting, a bit pampering about shaving and/or waxing (as the case may be). Sure, there’s also that part where several of my male friends have rather vociferously and rather consistently expressed their disdain – nay, disgust for women who don’t shave their armpits, but I’ve also come to terms with the fact that I don’t really have a philosophical crusade quite as lofty as feminism with which to justify my need to remove my body hair. Really, I’m just reveling in the fairly shallow argument that I’m still willing to spend an extra twenty minutes a week shaving my legs and armpits if it marginally increases my sexual attractiveness to the opposite sex. Shallow as that may be, I respect my feminist counterparts who refuse to shave, and, also, it’s worth noting that they still get laid all the time by really attractive men, so maybe my argument that it makes me more attractive is null and void. Therefore, maybe I’m just doing it out of force of habit, as has been impressed upon me by American culture, and, at the end of the day, the misperceived boost in attractiveness is just a boon to my sexual self confidence. If that’s the case, so be it. I like feeling self confident.

The Formula for Drink Counting During Mediocre Hook Ups

Meet up at bars late at night, and I’m running out of bars where I can go without running into anyone I know, which would be ideal seeing as my creeping attempts at seduction can be too easily thwarted by the presence of yet another former lover or future former lovers. I must focus on the task at hand, which is me, slowly monitoring my alcohol intake while simultaneously drink counting how much beer he’s sipping down right at this moment, then compounding that math with the probability of his ability to get it up after, what is that? His fifth beer? I check my phone, and it’s already 1AM, which means that the odds of avoiding the inevitable hook up half boner and then deciding if I should say something or just let him deal with his half hard boner and whatever orifice he thinks that he can shove it into while still guzzling down alcohol after last call – sigh. This mathematical calculation also taking into account the fact that he probably doesn’t get enough exercise, and probably doesn’t lead a very healthy lifestyle, and I’m suddenly getting nostalgic for being 22 – well, not me being 22, but when all the guys I hooked up with were 22 and didn’t have this problem. Maybe the CDC should put out a PSA about the benefits of exercise for men, and rather than emphasizing the fact that it helps curtail cancer, they should just be honest and say: If you exercise more, you’ll be able get your dick hard even after you’re totally wasted. Which brings me to the conclusion that I should be hooking up with guys when they’re less wasted, which means that I have to look for men who are self confident enough to take their clothes off without being totally shit face wasted, and also to get a guy to take his clothes off without being totally shit face wasted, I’ll probably have to do them the service of getting to know these theoretical future hook ups a little better than the two hour before last call. 

What can I say, I’m a bartender. It’s my job to drink count everybody I come across. 

The Ultimate Long Con

And what if the biggest con of all, in all of the human history – what if it isn’t about money, or sex, or power, or glory? What if it’s not about being smarter, or prettier, or faster, or richer, but what if it’s just about learning how to trick another human being into loving you. And not so much that it’s perceived as trickery, but the long, smooth con of reeling someone in, the emotional vice grip on another person’s heart, not as an act of cruelty, but an act of – of what? Of love? Hah! The cynic inside me begs to disagree, but that is what it’s about. Because with love, and all it’s ineffable auxiliary emotions, comes some sort of life long coupling. Something that isn’t perceived as shackles, initially, but something less sinister to that. If you can convince another person to suffer for you – well, then, that’s it, isn’t it? The only caveat to that one being, love is never a one way street. If you want someone to suffer for you in the name of love, you have to at least make it seem like the feeling is mutual. So I guess it’s time to learn how to fake that one.

1,000 POSTS!

Time for a little bit of ejaculatory self congratulations! This is the 1,000th post on Fuck Feast, and while, sure, it wasn’t 1,000 original pieces of literary crotch spew, it’s still 1,000 pieces of shit that came careening out of me and into the Internet. In one month, Fuck Feast will be two years old, which is great, because I’m pregnant with new ideas.

Intro to SLAA

Sometimes the line between a healthy attitude about liberated sexuality and using one’s own sexuality as a habitual opiate to numb the pain in other area’s of one’s life can be blurred. Especially as women, who are told that the moment they open themselves to sexual possibilities that they become whores. It’s easy to entangle one’s sexual liberation with the idea of sexual addiction, ignoring warning signs about unhealthy attitudes and actions by chalking it up to feminism. But, much like that drug phase that most of us went through in our late teenage years and early twenties, the exploration of sexuality can be a dangerous endeavor. While the desire to engage in sexual activity is a natural phenomenon, At what point does the sexual impulse become unhealthy? For some people, the race to engage in sexual activities and explore one’s sexuality to the brink of normalcy can push certain individuals to engage in activities that might normally be considered taboo. Things such as anal sex, sex for money, BDSM, group sex and homosexuality – things that initially were not on the table – might become commonplace. While these activities in and of themselves are not perverse or unhealthy, and perhaps the exploration of these activities might help to further liberate an individual, it’s important to remember that one’s own boundaries are exactly the thing that define healthy and unhealthy. For one person, having had 600 partners over the course of a lifetime is something to shrug at. For others, having had 6 partners is a cause for crisis. While I certainly am an advocate of people exploring their sexuality, questioning their boundaries, pushing for better sex and better partners, I realize that at a certain point some of these impulses become compulsive and unhealthy. So while I encourage you to do whatever the fuck you want to do, I also encourage you to ask yourself, “Is this good for me?” Because, personally, I have reached my breaking point several times. A while ago, I was engaging in certain activities that proved to be quite unhealthy for me, and, on a sexual level, some of these activities proved to be somehow also unsatisfying. Sex had become like a drug to me – I had to have more and more and more of it in order to feel any sort of high. Having been into the depths of human sexuality, I realized that I could resurface and find satisfaction in what would be considered some of the more mundane aspects of human sexuality. Because I realize that I have been guilty of engaging in sexual conquests like it was a competition, seeing who could stoop down into the deepest, darkest corners of depravity and lust. It was a game that was fun for a while, but it later occurred to me that I was playing a game with no winner. Because after a certain point, the darker it got, the less fun it became. So, while I realize that this is a sex blog, and not sex addict’s recovery blog, I also realize that people have their breaking points. And breaking points aren’t about boundaries – boundaries are self-imposed limits of comfort, and breaking points are the points of no return. You can cross a boundary and come back, but if you cross a breaking point, you’ll be broken with no fix in sight. So, kiddies, in conclusion, please explore your sexuality to the fullest of your abilities, but, remember, sex is like drugs, and if you start shooting up heroin every day, then you’ll be one of those people who shoots up heroin every day, and no one really wants to be that.

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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.”

The Fuck Feast Guide to Whether You Should Fuck That Guy You Know You’re Not Supposed To

~because Teen Vogue isn’t breaking it down with enough realness~

Society is constantly telling us, among other things, that there are certain people that we just shouldn’t fuck. It’s rude, it’s embarrassing, it’s desperate, it’s imprudent, it’s social suicide, it’s politically catastrophic. Well, you know what? Just because you shouldn’t fuck him doesn’t mean you can’t, and because it’s someone you shouldn’t fuck, you know what that means: it’s probably fun as fuck! So, we’d like to give you a quick guide to the pro’s and con’s of fucking that guy that you just know you shouldn’t. (Warning, this is kinda gross. I know, right??)

Your Sister’s/Best Friend’s/Mom’s/Roommate’s Boyfriend (or, even better, Husband!)

They call it sloppy seconds for a reason, but let’s admit it: if you’re in your 20’s, you’re always going to be someone’s sloppy seconds. So don’t let that reason stop you. On the other hand, nothing tastes better than forbidden fruit. The only downside to fucking homegirl’s main man is that you have to be ready to completely forfeit your friendship, and, like any break up, you might find that some of your formerly mutual friends are taking sides that might slightly ostracize you. If you’re just hanging out for a one night stand, you can always rectify the situation with the whole, “Sluts before Fucks! Don’t let men come between us!” bullshit. If you’re going for a full on relationship – well, you can’t get mad when he starts fucking your other best friend. So, before you go down this path, ask yourself: is his dick worth it? I mean, homeboy better be throwing down something fierce in the bedroom. And if he’s not, then revert to the “Don’t let men come between us” bullshit. It might not work, but it also might work. Be prepared to wear the “homewrecker” mantle for a moment, you scurrilous cunt, you! Read more →

Best Places to Have Sex in Public While Bar Hopping in Downtown Oakland

Having sex in public is a finely finessed art, and doing it in Oakland (aka the robbery capital of America) is even trickier. Of course, it’s always important to consider that while your pants are down around your ankles and your going at it with one or more other people, are you vulnerable as a victim of a robbery? Yes. Yes, you are. However, on the flipside, you don’t want to get picked up by the cops for indecent exposure (although, shouldn’t the cops be looking for people who are robbing other people instead of penalizing the merry galavanters of Downtown Oakland watering holes?) or become the buzzworthy spectacle of a group of fellow bar flies. So, it is with great aplomb that we would like to share some of our favorite places for having sex in Downtown Oakland while bar hopping. Because it’s way easier to bang in a parking lot than to take home some stranger and deal with kicking them out of your bed at 4 am, and also if you’re still Downtown you can go get a drink after! (And, also, your significant other probably isn’t scouring alleyways, looking for you and evidence of your cheating heart.)

So, here we go, broken down bar by bar, with the closest, most convenient place to have sex:

Ruby Room The library is right across the street. Of course, sometimes people (aka CNN, shout out to CNN) are hosting their anti-Ruby Room parties there, so you could go check out the Lake, although do so with caution. I’m not sure what the new promenade is like at night, but a hobo threatened to pull a gun on my friend for not bumming him a cigarette, so maybe just stick with the library and if it’s busy try elsewhere. Also, the Lake is plagued with joggers, but I’m sure late night joggers are used to that kind of thing. Also, see Radio. Read more →