The Original Sinner

There is a badness inside me, and I don’t know how to get it out. I don’t know who I would be without it, but for the sake of argument, I think I would be perfect. If there weren’t these deep, reeling emotions tucked down inside me, curdled and rabid, metastatic and virulent. The badness breaks out of me in silent moments, slipping out sinister into my daily interactions. Tugging on the sleeve of every valiant emotion that is supposed to make me feel good about myself. As I toil on, trying to be good, but then there it is, yet again: the badness inside me.

I am compelled to do things at which innocent bystanders scoff. It is foolish for me to be like this. It is awful for me to be this person. To be shackled to the sin within me that is dying to get out. Although I ask myself: should I live a life without pleasure? Should I deny myself the world? What would I gain if I killed the badness inside me? If I spent every night slowly suffocating my animal urges with a pillow. It would be messy, to murder my need to fuck and to feast and to experience pain both in the first hand and as it is inflicted upon other people.

The demons inside me tell me that this is okay, I am just a curious person. I merely want to know why people scream while they are bleeding – is it because they are weak? Or because the world needs to know that they are bleeding? Is it a natural reaction to pain? So I find a way to watch people bleed, so that I may observe, and then I may ask, “Why do you scream when you bleed?” I bleed myself, too, at times, and I try my hardest not to scream. Just because I want to know what it feels like to bleed silently, and if it feels better or worse than screaming. I haven’t decided on an answer yet, which is fine, because I haven’t stopped bleeding for years now.

But the rest of the world is not okay with this. Apparently, when I see someone bleeding, I am supposed to call 911 and apply pressure to the wound. Standing there and watching is frowned upon. Asking questions is even worse. Trying to understand the human pain I inflict on other people is a sign of malignancy in my mind. But as I look around the room, feeling chastised by some invisible, higher moral force, I wonder: if we’re supposed to be running around, stopping the bleeding, and making everything okay, why is someone taking time out of their day to tell me that what I’m doing is wrong? Shouldn’t this person be acting as medic #1? As opposed to someone who has pulled me aside to tell me that I am bad. I look around the room, and as I am receiving the inevitable lecture about the morality of watching people bleed, and how that is bad, I realize suddenly: everyone here is bleeding. And there is no way we can possibly stop it all. It doesn’t matter if it is my fault or someone else’s: we all bleed eventually. What is so wrong about wanting to know why this massacre is happening, or what if this is not a massacre at all, but this is just how we are. What if this constant state of pain is just the homeostasis of our existence, and there is nothing wrong with wanting to know, but it is easier to point and say that I am Eve, the original sinner.

The Limits of Self Loathing

He doesn’t know how many times people have said these things to me, and this is why I say them back to the world. He doesn’t know how many times people have told me that I couldn’t, or that I wasn’t good enough. Or I wasn’t pretty enough, or I didn’t make enough money, or that I was stupid, and that I shouldn’t aspire, I should just accept things the way they are. He doesn’t know about the little ways that the world says that to me every day. Every day I wake up and have to listen people imposing self doubt on me, even though I don’t really need it anymore. The world looks down on me for being a whore, and the whores look down on me for not making any money. He doesn’t know that the only that works is for me to turn around and proving everyone wrong, I still get pleasure out of spitting back in their faces and saying, “How does it feel to have someone tell you that you can’t?”

But, no, that’s not true. If I think about it – doesn’t he know, too? He knows what it’s like to be lesser than and reminded of his inferiority every day in every way. I don’t say these things to hurt him, because I know that he hurts enough already. Maybe that’s why we’re partners in crime; I see in him the same hurt that he sees in me. It’s the same isn’t it, to feel like this, to absorb all of the world’s judgment, to constantly try and then always give up because we will never be enough. Maybe I should stop whining about how the world is telling me that I will never be enough, and I should turn to him and let him know that we are enough, together. And that’s all that we need, because fuck the world.

Sex Like Summer

He kisses me softly, and I lie there, waiting for everything to feel better. It doesn’t, in the damp dark, where we are naked and sipping whiskey at 4 am. I’ve been here before, and while it has been fine in the past, my eyes drift away in the silence as my eyes start closing and visions of the recent past start resurfacing. I’m not sure if I should be here, or if this is a good thing, mostly because I told myself I wouldn’t act out of anger anymore. I don’t want to be this person anymore, and I thought that I had stopped, but I guess not, because here I am, doing exactly the thing that I told myself I wouldn’t do anymore. Two years ago I told myself I would stop fucking out my emotions on innocent men, that I would stop taking home someone else when the other guy was pissing me off. I told myself I would stop fucking people in an effort just to fuck people over. I told myself: no more heavy rebounds. No more one night stands for my self esteem. But here I am, and I’m upset still. I’m upset about the way that I’ve been treated by a man, so I am remedying it by being treated by another man. It’s an endless cycle that seems to act merely as a doubling down on personal crisis. When sex with one person doesn’t work out, try sex with someone else! Fantastic. So here I am, and while there are memories swirling in my mind of the recent hurt at the hand of someone I thought loved me, I look at the man next to me and wonder how likely it is that this will happen all over again, just with someone new. And how many people do I have to fuck out of desperation before I finally find the validation that I so desire in this very moment. Sex is great, but it turns out that I probably just want love instead. This is no way to go about getting it, but if I stop sleeping around, isn’t that just an admission of defeat?

Sex And The Town

Well, yeah, I’ve heard the comparison before. My friends like to refer to me as their personal Carrie Bradshaw, which is cool. I respect it. I’ve enjoyed all seasons of Sex and The City. If anything, that show is iconic and a fundamental part of many of my peer’s early experiences of sexuality. That was the first show that made it okay for us to talk about sex in cosmopolitan environment (pun intended).

Having recently made the decision to rewatch a few episodes of Sex and The City, I must admit that I quite enjoyed it and found it to be, in some ways, an upscale version of my own life. On the one hand, this made me feel like I’m completely unoriginal and just an Oakland Coliseum flea market bootleg knock off of Carrie Bradshaw, but, hey, I love the Oakland Coliseum flea market, and I love knock offs, so I’m not tripping. On the other hand, I realized that taking that idea and adapting it to the Bay Area, the center of sex radicalism and also regular radicalism, is vastly different from the polished New York veneer of Carrie Bradshaw in the early aughts. While the breadth of relationships that the show covers is still relevant, there was something about some of the episodes that seemed a bit squeamish, as issues such as golden showers and gender queer poly relationships were poo pooed. Carrie comments from a perspective of privilege, which is accessible and easily digestible.

I know that there’s nothing shockingly revolutionary about being a woman with a sex blog in the Bay Area in 2016, because this has all been done before. Throughout history, the fascination of sexuality has been documented on a personal level for the world to see many times before. Although, just because we’ve seen it before doesn’t mean that we’re not going to look when we see it pop up again, in a newer, prettier way. But credit where credit is due: I love Sex and The City for all the obviously tawdry reasons, and I’m always flattered when my friends call me their personal Carrie Bradshaw. I am happy to be that for you, ladies.

Eye Contact, Please

We were sitting at the bar, fairly close, and then, all of a sudden, I got a flash of insecurity. As we were engaging in our normal witty bar banter, there it was – he kept on looking at my mouth. Oh, fuck. As I sat there, trying to be interesting and funny, every couple of minutes, the glance down at my mouth. Do I have something stuck in my teeth? Am I breaking out and I don’t know it? Is my lipstick all over my chin? Is he really just sitting there, staring at a piece of lacinato kale lodged between my two front teeth? What is it?

I sat there, feeling a bit unsettled before I excused myself to the bathroom with a toothpick to do a thorough examination. When I got into the bathroom, I realized with a bit of weirdness – no, nothing in my teeth. My lipstick is fine. I haven’t broken out in boils on my upper lip. So I finished my business, and went back to the bar to settle back into conversation. And then there it was, again! The glance at my mouth. Now, with the confidence that there was no glaring flaw drawing his attention, I realized: oh. There’s nothing wrong. This is purely sexual.

So I sat back and smiled. What I thought in one moment was an obvious flaw on my behalf is now an admonition that all the power is in my hands. Fair enough.

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Anatomy of a Manic Oakland Dream Girl

The concept of the manic pixie dream girl is one that is so played out in popular culture, mostly because she’s a mythical creature, but also, if you live in Oakland, the manic pixie dream girl is a fucking joke. For the most part, the manic pixie dream girl is an irritatingly quirky white girl who pops up at parties and thinks that she’s and/or the center of attention because she’s playing into the trope of the manic pixie dream girl. However, as an Oakland party girl, I figured I’d let you know that we have our own version of the manic pixie dream girl, but it’s skewed through dark wave lens of drug addiction, darkness and having lived your whole life in the ghetto. So, for anyone who’s curious, here’s there anatomy of Oakland’s resident dream girl:

  • The Manic Oakland Dream Girl is born and bred Bay Area. She’s from here, so she gets it. She’s got that drop of ratchet in her blood from her time spent in Oakland, a bit of urbanity from weekends shlepping it in the city, and a very subtle hippie side that comes from cruising through Berkeley when there’s nothing else to do. She speaks the language, dresses the part, and bumps Mac Dre relentlessly at all hours of the day.
  • The Manic Oakland Dream Girl knows where all the good parties are – you know, the ones deep West or out in the East where all the beautiful coke heads go to dance all night -, and she goes to them pretty regularly. She has a drug dealer friend that will hook you up, a flask of Hennessy in her purse, dances like a stripper, and has slept with the DJ, but they’re cool, so don’t trip.

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The Fuck Feast Sexual Literacy Test

And, speaking of call backs and sexual literacy tests, here’s a list of things that I expect a man to ace on the first hook up:

  • Mastery of Attraction So, this is everything that happens before we get into the bedroom. A mastery of attraction means that you have a rudimentary understanding of the female ego, interpersonal communication and lust. A little bit of flattery, well responded to text messages, and flirtation. This is also the mastery of being attractive, so, y’know, take a shower and put on some nice shoes, okay?
  • Ability to get it up This is crucial. Look, if you can’t get it up, that’s fine. You overindulged. Or you’re nervous. Or you’re just no that into this. That’s fine. However, if you can’t get it up, why did you wheedle your way into my bedroom? Why are my clothes off if you can’t perform? I understand that we all can’t be perfect all the time, but being able to get an erection is crucial to fucking, and if you can’t do that, then you’re just not ready for this, honey, and you’re wasting my time. It’s back to the friend zone for you. Unless, of course, you make up for it with copious amounts of oral sex. That’s cool.
  • Oral Sex To be specific, cunnilingus. This is so day one. If you don’t eat pussy, then get the fuck away from me. If you don’t eat pussy, I can’t imagine what else it is that you won’t do. Eating pussy is the most basic move in the book, and if you don’t have this mastered, then who are you and what are you doing with your life?

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A Woman’s Experience of Lust Part II

There are snakes in my eyes as I slither between these sheets to wind up the leg of some new beast, slurping up sins and sensation like a newborn Eve on her first night fucking Adam. And what does it feel like to eat meat, red, raw and dripping while white blankets carry the new stains of another night in heaven. I would like to know what it feels like to be good, but I am too busy being bad to ever stop and pause and consider any other alternative option. I just let my fingers do the talking, whispering sweet nothings to the buttons at the top of your pants, singing sweet songs to your zipper as I zip and unzip and pull down and around. We both know what kind of secrets are hidden therein, all those beautiful inches upon inches of – well, inches of you. Read more →

A Woman’s Experience of Lust

Lust, which is just how I like it. But this is my lust, not yours. This is my deep, red sin, not yours. This is my experience of lust, my singular experience. I cannot vouch for your experience of lust, but I am offering you mine in the hopes that it can illuminate and accentuate your own experience of lust. To make it better. So that we can all experience lust on an elevated level, fine tuned and tingling in the night. This is my experience of lust, gnawing raw through the night, while yours might be elsewhere, sipping tea in the sunshine on a vast, grassy field. My lust is a beast, but yours…well, what is yours? Is your lust a rabbit, soft and petting, or a shark, filled with teeth? Is your lust a car that goes fast and crashes through the median? Or an explosion in a coal mine, killing everything around it? Is it blistering and bright? Yellow and pretty? Or does it skulk around, alone through rooms, looking ugly and yelling loudly?

This is my experience of lust. This is my experience of that chafing, fast emotion. It is a dangerous situation that I wade through wantonly, and you are welcome, dear spectator, to watch me stumble down. But you? Well, I expect you to experience lust in your own way, and if you would like to laugh at me while you do, please be my guest. But if anything, make sure that you experience your lust as beautifully as possible, because I certainly am.