Man Feaster

“Yeah, she’s a real man eater.”

Someone who is my friend is talking specifically about my best friend, the lovely Christina. My ears perk up as he says this to me, and I feel a flush of, “Oh my god. I had no idea!” I mean, I guess I had somewhat of an idea that Christina is a man eater, I’ve just never heard it put in such overt tones. I guess if I thought about it, I would realize that, yeah, she chews them up, spits them out, lets them rot, but also keeps them in a box on a shelf for her recreational use at a moment’s notice. And they are always there. It’s a remarkable process to watch, and I realize that perhaps I have a touch of the man eater in me, too, after having been exposed to the ease and grace with which a woman can conjure up a harem of lesser than men and keep them neatly in a row. It’s something that’s not easy, because if it were easy then every woman out there would do it.

Although, actually it is easy, it just requires a certain amount of emotional labor, and not everyone is willing to do it. But I learned from a master, and it’s not really man eating because I haven’t noticed that any of her men are bleeding or have bite marks of any kind. They all seem fairly happy and content to be considered among the many who maintain her affections. Which is essential to the management of any group of people: they must all be happy to be counted among the favorites, and who cares if they know about each other? We can all feast together so who cares if you’re a man eater at the table of life.

World Hungering

He’s talking to me about his gluten allergy, and he’s doing it with the force and defensiveness of someone who could never realize that I’ve been starving in a world of plenty for as long as I could remember. Which has nothing to do with poverty, because that’s not the problem. There is (usually) always food on the table, but that’s not the reason that I’m hungry. I’m hungry because I’ve been told that I should not eat. That I should not crave. That indulge my hunger is an act of defeat in the definition of a woman.

He speaks with shame about his food allergies, and I sit here, nodding, because little does he know that I’ve tried every diet in the book in the pursuit of being painfully thin. He’s trying to avoid a stomach ache by cutting certain things out of his diet. I’m trying to avoid social judgment every time I decide to continue to not to eat. Which is starkly different in contrast, but as I can in his eyes as he asks me for sympathy, all I can say is, “I have no sympathy for the devil.” I was born to not eat. I have been told to starve myself when across the world people are actually starving, but this has nothing to do with geopolitics. And it has nothing to do with allergies or feeling bloated. I am starving myself and denying myself because that’s what women do in this world: we sit down at the feast and refuse to eat while the rest of the world withers away, waiting outside, dying to get in. This is the unfairness of America, and I am both the victim and the perpetrator of this particular brand of food violence.

Being Bad In Bed Is For The Birds And Also Day One Fuckers

“Ugh, I’m just so sick of fucking dead fish.”

WHAT?!

I’m hanging out with my friend’s new roommate when he subtly drops this into our mature, adult conversation about a variety of things. But it takes me off guard, and I immediately turn around to stare at him because, what the fuck? Dead fish? There are dead fish out there still? Are you serious?

I look at the guy in question and feel so confused: he’s pretty hot, and he’s not white, so why is he getting saddled with bad pussy?

“Yo, you’re picking them wrong. You can tell from the moment you meet a person how they fuck just based on the way they talk or walk or eat their food.”

“Yeah, but I didn’t figure it out until it was too late…”

He trails off a bit because I think he can tell that I’m utterly baffled by his statement. Just to be clear, the reason I’m so baffled is because I’ve never heard any of my male friends ever say this before. And most of my male friends have slept with hundreds upon hundreds of women. Sure, they probably had a few dead fish in there, but they probably treat dead fish in the bedroom the same way they would treat dead, rotting fish in real life: get away from it is as fast as possible, never talk about it, and never make the same mistake twice. It’s a move that speaks to a certain level of sexual intelligence; just as I can read a little dick with a fear of vaginas off a man, these men have learned how to avoid pillow queens and dead fish.

My current co-conversationalist, however, seems to be a little bit lower on the learning curve. But that’s the thing about him: he’s not from here. Me and all my friends? We’re all Bay Area natives, and with being a Bay Area native comes a certain level of swagger, a dash of street smarts, and the foresight to never, ever be bad in bed. I am proud to announce that, yes, all my friends know how to fuck. They are all beautiful people who are wonderful in bed. Trust me! I’ve test driven almost every single one. And for this guy who’s not from here – maybe he just doesn’t know. Maybe he doesn’t know what it takes as a woman in this city, and you know damn straight as you’re walking down the street and all the other beautiful women in their beautiful clothes with their beautiful butts strutting around, selling it cheap but you still know that if you can’t suck dick as good as the bitch on the street corner then you ain’t shit. You figure it out from an early age if you engage in the culture of the Bay Area: being bad in bed is simply unacceptable. You can be ugly as sin, but if you’re bad in bed, you probably won’t have any friends.

It’s easy to tell who abides by that and who does not. There’s a certain look in the eye of a man with an average to perhaps below average dick but knows what he has to do in order to fuck like a champ. He knows he has to tie her to the bed, eat her out til she cums four times, slap her face with his dick, stick it in her butt, and spank her with the force of a man with a big dick. And you can tell if a guy has a nice dick just by the way he carries himself, but what’s more important is figuring out if the guy with a nice dick is going to bring his A game to the bedroom or if he’s just going to jackhammer your pussy for two minutes and then be awkward afterwards because sometimes that’s the things with guys with nice dicks: they don’t always know that they’re bad in bed because pretty people and pretty dicks rarely get the feedback they need. I’m sure that this general philosophy can be translated to women, as well.

So as I continue to talk to this guy and try to explain to him that he doesn’t ever need to risk having bad sex ever again, I realize, oh, lordy, he has no idea what’s in store for him as a new resident of Oakland and a newcomer to our social circle. These girls are ready to fuck the shit out of somebody like him on a moment’s notice, and then walk away right after. I wonder what will happen to him. I wonder if he’ll get lost in the fray of our collective sexual mania, and I wonder if it will be fun to watch. So I sit back and smile, and I wait for my world to eat him, one piece at a time.

A Solution: Oakland Youth and The Man With The Gun

Always in the aftermath, there are the ensuing posts on social media which I generally try to ignore, but trying to deal myself with the trauma and tragedy of being at a party that got shot up, and now, days later, watching all my friends fall to pieces and half my community succumb to a collective, crushing depression, I have to wonder: what happens now?

I’m aware that it’s always trendy to say things like, “We need to have a community meeting!” or “The poor youth of Oakland! Let’s support them!” or “More gun control!”

But I’ve noticed that the people who call for community meetings aren’t really a part of the community that was there that night. Having been there, and having seen the posts on Facebook, I have to wonder: why is a community that is separate from ours trying to have a meeting to discuss our community and our actions? I’ll be honest: I’ve seen a few white people who aren’t from here jumping on the bandwagon to do something about. While I understand that the urge to help is noble, there’s a part of me that has a sneaking suspicion that half these people posting about community meetings are just opportunists vying for attention and laying claim on the title of community organizer just because they see other people are hurting. Maybe I’m cynical, but if you’re coming out of the wood works now to support a community that you didn’t really care about before this, then what were you doing before? And why now? To be very cynical: if you weren’t at that party, it’s probably because you weren’t invited, and you weren’t invited because you aren’t a part of the community.

People want to talk about supporting the youth of Oakland, but just to make something clear: the people who were at that party and who suffered the most are not necessarily the youth of Oakland. Perhaps this is splitting hairs, but the people at that party were 18-25 year olds from places like Berkeley, Walnut Creek, Alameda and Richmond. Which isn’t to say that people have missed the mark; the youth of Oakland definitely need all the love and support they can get. But the people who were there came to the party because, on some level, this is the lifestyle they have chosen. There has always been a social contract between people not from Oakland and life in Oakland; we come here because we want to, and we know it’s dangerous. It has always been dangerous. Despite any recent socioeconomic changes, we have never known Oakland to be any other way. So when I hear people referring to me and my friends as the “youth of Oakland” it kinda makes me realize that the people referring to us in that way are just older than us and perhaps out of touch with what’s going on here because, fuck, I’m almost thirty and I was there. I’m definitely not the youth of Oakland.

As usual, it’s natural for people to want to address the issue of gun violence in Oakland. This, too, is an age old issue. However, people always look to issues on gun control after gun violence, but talking about gun control in Oakland takes a different color because here we have to deal with unregistered guns as opposed to legislating a way to prevent registered guns from getting into people’s hands. There is an entire culture in Oakland surrounding guns, and, well, it’s really easy to get an unregistered gun. (Not that I know whether the guns used Saturday night were registered or not, but it seems like a salient point seeing as this is a part of our culture.) I have to admit that the recent law that passed in California that requires registration for the purchase of bullets is probably one of the best measures to aid in a case like this. Even if a gun is unregistered, the bullets can be traced back to a person.

So, for all you gun control fanatics out there, what is a better solution in the face of unregistered hand guns? I have to admit, I don’t want to see people being punished for possessing unregistered hand guns any more than they already are. This is the thing about people who always call for more gun control laws or harsher punishments on gun offenders: having conversations with these people in the real world, I find that very few of them have ever handled a gun, much less tried to purchase one, gone to a shooting range, or fired one themselves. Let’s be honest about the cultural paradigm of guns: it’s possible to own a gun – registered or not – and never wind up killing someone. But until you go through the process of shooting or buying a gun (whether it’s at a gun store or illegally), you’re never going to get in touch with the level of desperation that comes from needing to have a gun. You’ll never be familiar with what it takes to fire a gun, the mentality behind the recklessness, how crazy it feels to carry a loaded, concealed weapon with you everywhere you go.

If you have no experience with guns, then the lack of experience with the mentality that goes behind guns and gun ownership is going to lead to misinformed decisions. Having been in the Oakland party scene for a long time now, I know that at most of the parties I go to, there is probably someone with a loaded gun. Sometimes these people are looking for fights, but most often there is a deep sense of insecurity that goes along with taking a loaded gun with you out to a social event. Ultimately, there is a sense of fear, and that fear is so overwhelming (although generally unaddressed) that it makes sense to a person to carry a gun into a crowded room in order to feel safe. At which point you have to wonder: what is this person doing with his life that this is the only way to feel safe out in the world? Answer: definitely not sitting around on social media talking about community and tragedy. Having known the man at the bar with a loaded gun in his pants, I can attest to the fact that the things he is doing with his life are problems that need to be addressed way before we even begin a conversation about guns.

In lieu of trying to find constructive solutions for the people in my community, there are a few things I would like to ask for from the people who are posting on social media. First off, please stop trying to coopt our pain. It’s fucking insulting. If you want to help out, then you should reach out to the people who were there, who saw it happen, who are probably sitting in a room somewhere crying or drinking or trying to forget. You should stop posting on social media just so you can get likes and comments and pity, and instead show up and talk to the people who were there and who were involved. Not just today, but also next week. Also a month from now. A year from now. If you care, be a real friend. Just to be there, and just to talk. To bring flowers, or offer resources. To be a shoulder to cry on and not a social media account. If you can’t show up, then you can donate money. If you can’t donate money, then help work on a project that supports the people who are coping with this tragedy. Here are a few products and resources I would like to see in my community (but probably won’t):

  • Improved mental health services In the short term, I think it’s really important that we reach out to the people who were there, who knew the people who died, who witnessed the tragedy, who are now afraid and mourning. Offering free grief counselling and trauma counselling will help this community to heal faster. Beyond that, having immediate access to free grief counselling should be standard in this city because, hate to admit it, these things happen all the time.
  • Preventative mental health services I remember reading this Vice Article on the advent of PTSD in Oakland youth, and it seems that setting up readily available, free counselling for people throughout the Bay Area is much needed because, god damn, we have all seen some crazy stuff.
  • More resources to help create a self sustaining arts community We need the help of people who can help us support ourselves in our own spaces that are safe as we continue to try to put on events and be an artistic community. A lot of respect to East Bay Express for being so supportive of the local art community. But we are suffering in the face of gentrification, constantly being pushed out of the spaces that we want to claim as our own. Jobs and opportunities are constantly going to people who aren’t from here, and we can barely afford to live in a city that is at the same time slowly killing us. The more that we have the means to support ourselves the stronger this community will be. Sometimes that support is financial. Sometimes that support is older generations reaching out to young people and hooking us up with gigs and press and advice.
  • Equitable job opportunities If we all had the means to make enough money to live comfortably and safely in our homes, then it would be easier for us to bring in our friends who are more inclined to violent, criminal modes of income back from the fray. But it’s frustrating to look for a job where white people who aren’t from here, or people who aren’t from here but had the means with which to get a college education are always hired first. It’s hard to walk into a job on the first day of work and know you’re a diversity hire, and know that not fitting in is probably what’s going to get you fired. All this fighting hurts our self esteem, so if you have a normal job, you need to put us on to get us in and get us good jobs.
  • Better education We should give our teachers raises. Our classrooms should have more resources. The children in our school system should have the opportunity to learn from trained professionals who know how to deal with psychological dysfunction and trauma. School is hard, and often times school can be another nexus of rejection for youth who don’t excel academically. Our schools need to be havens that accommodate all youth from all walks of life so that they can build a fundamental sense of self esteem so that later in life they can ask for better jobs and more money and help rather than falling into the trap of a life where carrying a gun is the most logical way to feel good about walking around in the world.
  • Black Lives Matter More of this. I shouldn’t even have to say it.
  • Fuck The Police Also a reminder, policing and any sort of policing system put in place is Draconian and not of the people, not by the people, and not for the people. But, in lieu of this, for those who were not lucky enough to escape the wrath and the trap of the police: we still have to fight for prisoners’ rights.

As someone in this community who doesn’t have the means to accomplish all of this, consider this my cry for help. Anything less than this will most likely result in the disbandment of a part of my community in the name of fear and anxiety. If we don’t do this now, we’ll lose something beautiful, and it will be our fault alone. Please help us.

Here is a link to Terrence’s memorial campaign fund. 

We Now Interrupt This Regularly Scheduled Sex Blog To Bring You: WTF Happened Saturday Night

I was driving with my friend yesterday, and the clothes that were covered in blood were still in her back seat. She had spent part of the day cleaning the blood out of her car. The look in her eyes as we sped down San Pablo was hollow, which isn’t good because the hollowness in her had started to slowly fill up with something dark and almost unrecognizable. And I could see in her face that she was replaying Saturday night over and over again in her head, just like everyone else in this city. That suddenness of gun shots. The people running and ducking. And how many people had seen the dead body hit the floor. How many people knew. How many people had been standing right there. How many people had seen it happen.

I was lucky. I had just walked away from my friends moments before it happened, heading (as usual) to the nearest liquor store. Looking over my back. Ducking behind a trash can as I watched people sprint and scream past me. The cars peeling out. I waited for the gun shots to stop, and I realized: there’s no going back there. My friends had been in there, but who knows now. So I sprinted in four inch heels three blocks down over to Somar to hide all alone in the crowd and a cup of booze.

My friends weren’t so lucky. One of my friends got sliced up by broken glass, and the rest of them were too close for comfort. He wound up getting sixty stitches all over his body, and it was his blood in my friend’s car. They had sped to the hospital, everything gushing at one in the morning.

I didn’t know as I sat at the bar, waiting for my friend before going home to try to forget despite all the incoming text messages and phone calls time stamped with bad news and more bad news. I didn’t know what had happened or who had been hurt, all I knew was that I was alone at this bar waiting to find out if everything was okay because I couldn’t go home or be alone with only the thoughts of gun shots and the fleeing crowd sitting in my skull.

At 3 am I got the call: someone was dead. Someone had died. I could hear the crying in the background as I sat in the cab with my friend going home. Who was dead. Who had died.

It wasn’t supposed to be like that. That wasn’t supposed to happen. It had been me and all those brilliant, beautiful people that grace the streets of Oakland, spilling out onto 15th street on another pretty August night. It had been so good, rolling up just to find my friends, drunk and gleeful and all together. It was the best of them, really. The best of all of us were there, just as we are at every other party. All the people who matter. Looking gorgeous as we always do, decked out to drink heem from half pints and dance in heels and flirt and then fuck at the end of the night. Music bumping. Cars burning rubber. Old friends, new friends. It was like that. It was supposed to be one of those nights. One of those parties. Another party that we could call the party of the summer because everyone was there. It was supposed to be wonderful.

I went to visit my friend yesterday. He had just gotten out of the hospital and was more coherent despite all the meds they had given him. I had stopped looking at Instagram and Facebook because I couldn’t look at those sunny pictures of a dead boy posted with sad taglines. Everyone knew T Mack. This is a fucking tragedy. I looked at my friend as he sat on his bed, no longer crying but in that post hospital haze right before the meds wear off and the anxiety of reality sets in. The look in his eye of: it could have been me. It was almost me. The look in everyone’s eye of: it could have been me, but it wasn’t me. It was someone I love instead, and now I have to live with this shit, and how do I live with this shit?

It feels easy to sit at a computer and post things like, “Help the youth in Oakland!” Perhaps I’m too close to what happened to feel inspired to examine the social paradigm that allows this kind of tragedy to happen, or whose fault it is, or what we are supposed to do now. The only thing that can be done at this point is feel pain, and then what, I don’t know. I think we’re supposed to rebuild or support each other or something, but how are we supposed to think about that when all of this has already been slowly slipping away anyways? Nothing can be the same, because nothing has been the same for a long time. All we have is each other, and all we can do is cherish that for as long as we can, before everything is gone.

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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.