About My Birth Control

I went off birth control a couple months ago (which directly contradicts statements I’ve made previously on this blog – see pinned post to the right – and, also, sorry if that was misleading), and, oof, what a doozie. I went off birth control because my 20s are nearing a close, and I made it through the past twelve years without an unwanted pregnancy, which is great because I don’t think I would have stopped partying or fucking if I had gotten pregnant. But now I’m more mature, and I’m more careful, and I think everything will be fine.

However, there is one thing that I would like to talk about that I was not expecting to happen when I went off birth control: the uncontrollable weight gain, mostly centered around my ass. Like, oh, girl, this shit happened over night. I got THICK. I’m talking ten pounds, and probably eight of them went to my ass.

I wasn’t really expecting a ten pound weight gain, so when it happened, naturally, I freaked out. Mostly because rapid weight gain can sometimes be a symptom of (you guessed it!) pregnancy, so, of course, there went $20 down the drain on pregnancy tests that I took in moments of panic.

But it turns out I’m not pregnant, I just look it. This is fine. I am telling myself this is fine. Despite the fact that I fell victim to diet culture at a pretty young age, this is okay. My ass looks amazing, even though my clothes are a little tighter now. I got a little extra padding around the middle, but that’s okay, it doesn’t look bad. It’s just different.

I’m not really sure what I was expecting. I’ve been ingesting hormones on a daily basis for twelve years. I guess it didn’t occur to me that quitting cold turkey might permanently upset the balance within my body.

This is unfair. Men do not have to chemically alter their bodies in order to have sex. Me? I remember going on birth control and how wild that was. Now coming off of it is proving to be a bit of a roller coaster, too. The burden of not having children falls on me, and that burden looks like sustained chemical alteration of my body. I’m the one who took the time to go to Planned Parenthood all those times to get my birth control prescriptions refilled.

I guess what I’m really saying here is: after twelve years of not having a baby, I now have to deal with a sudden weight gain, whereas every man who benefited from the pleasure of unprotected sex with me doesn’t have to deal with any negative consequences of my decision to get on and then get off of birth control. The burden of responsibility is on me, and the burden of consequences is on me, as well.

I wish every man I let cum inside me would rapidly gain ten pounds for no apparent reason just because I went off birth control. But I know that’s not going to happen, so I guess I’d just like a thank you card, instead, thanking me for being responsible enough to not get pregnant with an unwanted child.

However, from here on out, just so we’re clear: I don’t want your baby, but it’s your responsibility to not get me pregnant.

Notes on a Diaspora: I’m Giving Up On Oakland

I can’t be here anymore.

I feel like I’m suffocating.

We all know why I feel this way. I don’t need to list out the reasons yet again. But I banked my whole life on being here forever. Years ago, I made the decision to not leave. I made the decision to invest in this community. I wanted to be someone here. I wanted to be a part of all the wonderful things that were happening in Oakland.

Now? Now I feel like I’ve bankrupted myself trying to be a part of this city. This city never loved me back. And now I know it never will. Oakland doesn’t want me here. Oakland so clearly doesn’t want me or any other artist to live here, so why even bother? The fact of the matter remains: there is no artistic opportunity here. This city is so damn expensive, but there is no funding from the arts, there is no support of the arts, and there is not a culture that promotes artistic opportunity – be it from art buyers or art professionals who can help young creatives stay here and foster an artistic career that makes enough money for us to stay living in this city.

It’s the ultimate rejection: price artists out of a community that had very little going for it except that its cheapness appealed to wide swath of artists. Without artistic peers to support us, no one else is supporting us. The newcomers aren’t supporting us. The city isn’t supporting us. The US government doesn’t value the arts. We are the only ones who value us, so it is time for me to leave.

There’s no way I could see myself being happy in this city – there is too much pain seeping through these streets. All I can hope for now is a graceful exit. That I can leave with my dignity intact. That this city doesn’t take from me the one last thing I have going for me: my self respect.

I See the Flaws of the Men of Oakland

This is just to let you know: I know.

I know about what you did. I know because she told me. Yes, that’s right. We have started to talk. And your name came up. In fact, the names of most of the men in Oakland who I knew and some I didn’t come up.

It’s not much fun to go out anymore, now that I knew. It was much easier for me to pretend that none of this was happening. I didn’t have to be angry when I didn’t know. I didn’t have to think about how it would look if I was seen talking to you at a party or a bar. I didn’t have to think about every interaction I’ve had with you and how I failed to see that you – yes, you! – had abused her. Or that you would abuse her. Or that you were capable of abusing her.

I feel fucking guilty. Because of you. Because of what you did to her. Because of what you did to me. I don’t want to go out anymore because I know that if I see you, it will be the same thing: the lies. Pretending to care. Wearing that guise of a good guy so well. You fooled me. I feel like a fucking fool.

I also do not want to see the people who knew and did nothing. I am afraid that at some point I was one of those people. I am afraid that I will be called on my bullshit because, yes, I have been there, standing by the side of a man who abused a woman and not knowing any better. That is a completely story, but, don’t worry, I’ll tell you all about what he did in due time.

But now that I know – now I know who defends those men, too. They are everywhere. They are people with power. Perhaps this is why I don’t want to go out and see any of you anymore: your collective social capital will crush me the minute I open my mouth and say, “He hit her.”

I almost want to laugh. Because I’ve risked my social capital on that before, and, no, it did not go very well for me, and he still gets work in this town, and now I look like the crazy one talking shit about a member of our community.

It’s true. He hit her. Y’all just didn’t want to hear it or do anything about it.

Because what are we supposed to do. What kind of justice can we extract in these situations? I see that the women do not have a voice, they do not have a chance to defend themselves, they do not have a chance to attain good social standing, they do not have the opportunity to leverage their communities in order to advance. But the men are given forgiveness, and then all is forgotten. The women? They languish as they try to put the pieces back together. The bills do not stop rolling in just because you’re depressed because your boyfriend hit you.

Make him pay for her therapy. Make him pay for it all. Make him pay for her cab rides home because she doesn’t feel safe at night. Make him pay for her rent so she can stay in a safe place. Make him pay for her food so she can eat healthy and take care of herself. Make him pay for her medication. Make him pay for drinks and dinner for her and her friends so she can go out and talk about what happened and feel taken care of.

Make him wear a scarlet letter. Make him register as a woman beater. Let it show up in Google searches so all future employers know. Put an asterisk on his Tinder account so women know that he did this to someone.

I know none of that will happen. But it would be nice if something happened. If one thing happened. If there were one consequence for the pain you have caused us. If we didn’t have to run and hide on Facebook groups, whispering for fear of retaliation.

How come every time a man hits a woman, she is committing social suicide? Can we change that?

Acknowledging a Lack of Resilience

It’s been nine months since the fire.

Every day, I read things online about the sorry state of Oakland: the police scandals, the broken roads, the housing crisis, the fires, the gung ho gentrification that leaves poor communities in the dirt and also out of Oakland. Every day, I read things online about the sorry state of America: presidential gaffes, Russian ties, health care repeal. Every day, I’m online and I see my friends posting about their pain: the racism, the homelessness, the poverty, the transphobia, the misogyny, the fact that resistance fighting is now being labelled as terrorism.

Things have not gotten better. My hope is fading. There is something inside me that is whispering quietly, “Run away! Get out of here!” That voice is getting louder every day.

I am living in a world that is divided. We were not always like this. I remember being filled with hope at the Occupy Oakland rallies. I remember thinking things were going to get better when Black Lives Matter became active. I remember showing my support for antifa and anti-nazi protestors who held claim to their land. Now? Now all those organizations are defunct in some way due to government policing (or murder) and having been labelled terrorists.

I wonder where we go from here. Or, more importantly, where do I go? Where have my people gone? Why is everyone I know still here but things feel so … icy.

This city used to buzz with the electricity of everyone here doing so many things. Now it just weeps. This city is haunted by a demon with no name, a slippery demon that cannot be pinned down and throat slit.

We are being swarmed by interlopers. We haven fallen victim to our own dogmatism in the hopes of salvation. We attack online and then there are no results. We see so clearly now that politicians are determining our lives for us, in the name of saving us. We are not being saved. There is no salvation.

I would really like to leave. My endurance for misery is depleted. I don’t have any new ideas. I have run out of hope. I am seeking desperately for something or someone to save me. You could sell me a slice of hope for everything I own, and I would take it, because that’s all I want right now. It’s what I need in order to keep going: a sense that things can and will get better. That I have the power to fix something. That I can be less afraid for at least one moment in order to find the strength to look within myself and figure out what it is that we all need in order to get better.

For the first time in my life, I’m out of ideas. I have no clue what it’s going to take for this to get better. The only solution I see is that our generation in this moment fades to the background and someone new who has been less hurt suggests something that works. We can wait for the next election cycle. We can wait for the holes in our heart to scab over and heal. We can wait to grow old so that we can be less bothered by the blistering reality of the world out there.

I want to feel at home again. That, more than anything. Like I belong somewhere, or with someone. That I am making the right choices. That I am being brave. Bravery feels like foolishness for the sake of social media attention. That’s not what I want. I want the tired in the eyes of the people I see every day to be replaced with the joy and optimism that used to be there. I want to turn back time. I want to be anywhere but here. But I am here, so now what?

I have never felt this way in my life before, this communal depression that isn’t being acknowledged or treated. We don’t even talk about the fire anymore. We try to act like it never happened, but that isn’t helping. It is hard to try to treat myself, but as soon as I go out to be with other people, I see that they suffer from the same sadness that I just can’t kick. It has always been easy for me to find solutions. I do not know how to save an entire city. I can barely save myself.

People talk about the opioid epidemic that is devastating communities in rural parts of the country. I barely care about that. Their demon has a name and a solution. Our demon is a slow and creeping monster that gets fatter every month, but to everyone else our monster is called progress. I don’t want progress. I want a home.

The main reason I stayed in Oakland for so long was because of the people – they were always so scintillating and beautiful, in this wonderful weather, and unlike anyone else, anywhere else. But the people here have lost their sparkle, and they are leaving, and they are being replaced by people whom I do not care to get to know. If the people here are no longer wonderful, then what am I doing here?

It might be nicer to go to a new city. I’ll be honest: part of it is I know too many men who have sexually assaulted or abused the women in this city. Just: wow. We formed a community and started talking about how much we suffer, and, holy shit, so many of you are on that list. It’s hard to go out and see these men and know what they have done. To all of us. To me. To my friends. I watch them go out and succeed, and they do not suffer the way that we suffer.

There is so much suffering here.

I guess I can sit here and wait to be swept out to sea with the tides of irrelevance. I would like to not matter at all anymore. I would like to be compliant with the status quo. I would like anything other than this right now.

You Know What It Means When You Get Those Text Messages From Me

My heart hurts. I hit him up for a quick dose of love like a shot in the arm. He is the quick fix for this fit of loneliness that has me glued to the bed like a roach in a trap. His words like a hot gust of flattery and attention, making me feel somewhat normal again. I cannot leave this cavern of my own creation if there is no one out there who wants me. I text him so that I can know that someone still wants me. Someone, anyone. It’s a pathological need for affection. It’s human nature to need love. I don’t know if I’m sick or if I’m honest, but I do know that the world doesn’t want me when I’m like this. When I’m begging for love of some sort. The world never seems to want to give it to me.

Which is why I find myself, phone in hand, his name at the top of this text, my finger hovering over the send button. He’ll know what it means as soon as he reads it. He’ll know that “hey” means “Did you forget about me? Have you stopped loving me? Do you still want me?” He’ll know that I haven’t found someone else to answer those questions for me today, so I need him to tell me the answer that I want to hear. Even though we both know we shouldn’t be doing this. We should let go of each other and throw out the emotional crutch. I should stop doing this before I can’t live without him at all, because after years of trying I already know that I can’t live with him. I should pick one and settle for it. I should either stop texting him, or I should suck it up and realize that I’m stuck here with him.

Instead, I am in the middle, too afraid to look for someone else, too smart to try to work it out with him. But naive enough to keep on texting him in my daily search for validation and meaning. It’s a quick hit, like an addict, and tonight I will go out to bars searching for some other man who might be able to fill this role. If not – more texting.

Fuck Wars 2017: Rebound Edition

I recently got out of a “relationship” (you know, it wasn’t a relationship, we were just sleeping together, but he wasn’t my boyfriend, and we weren’t dating, but we talked every day and my mom loved him and sometimes we would go to church together or he’d come over to my mom’s house for various relevant holidays), and as with the termination of most “relationships” there’s always this lingering tension of: who’s gonna find someone to fuck and be happy with first?

It’s a competition, really. Can you do it in a matter of hours? A matter of days? How soon can you lock down someone to fuck so you can put it on Instagram and during the final arguments at the end of the relationship bring it up in the most petty way possible?

This is something I used to be really good at. I used to look forward to it, the mean text messages and then sleeping with his best friend. I did it just because I could. I could fuck his best friend, his brother, his roommate, his boss or even his exgirlfriend. Just to do it. Just because I knew it would hurt.

I used to do it all the time. I used to do it preemptively, too. I remember one time, a boy told me, “Please don’t sleep with all my friends when we break up.” I smiled and didn’t say anything – I had already slept with all his friends before we got together. Quite the trump card.

However, I’d like to think that as I’ve gotten older, I’ve gotten wiser. I haven’t really been into the instantaneous rebound (unless it’s not technically a rebound and I’m just trading in one lover for another) for a while. It’s an emotionally exhausting pursuit, and I usually don’t get a lot out of it.

I can remember the exact moment when I decided that I wasn’t going to do this kind of shit anymore. I was drunk sitting on some random dude’s face after he had cum (he wasn’t that random, he was the boss of the guy with whom I had recently split), and as I was sitting there, trying to suffocate him with my pussy, I realized: I’m not going to cum. I’m not even close to cumming. At which point I came to the further realization that this wasn’t even that fun, and if I’m not having fun and I’m not cumming, why am I doing this?

I am doing this out of spite.

That’s a horrible reason to fuck someone. Out of all the possible reasons to fuck someone, doing it out of spite is cruel and dehumanizing, and if the sex isn’t good it becomes totally pointless. I realized that by using someone as my sexual object as medium of revenge, I’m a complete asshole. I’ve taken someone and put them in a position where they can never possibly be anything more than a disrespected object that I am using for my own gain. Without their consent, I am wedging a third party into my previous relationship and using that third party to hurt my former partner. I may even be putting that third party in harm’s way.

I don’t rebound for the sake of rebounding anymore. It always feels so empty and it doesn’t really make me feel good about myself. It also just makes things messy and more complicated than they have to be – instead of one guy thinking I’m an asshole, now there are two guys who think I’m an asshole and a slut.

The point of rebounding with someone so quickly isn’t even really completely about spite, either. It’s more about low self esteem and the fact that I have to reassure myself that I’m hot enough to fuck anyone I want, including my ex’s brother or boss or roommate or whatever. It’s about proving to myself and to my former partner that I can fuck anybody, that I’m cute enough not to have to be alone, and that I could have done better than my former partner all along.

I like myself too much for those kinds of games. I know I can fuck anyone I want, but just because I can doesn’t mean I’m going to. It sounds exhausting. And I’m pretty sure my partners already know I can do better if I want to. I try not to lord that over them in relationships, but once the relationship is over, they know I’ll be fine. I’m not in the mood to complicate my life out of pettiness and spite over some boy who wasn’t worth it in the end.

On the other hand, when I see my former partners doing exactly that – fucking the first willing woman they can find – it makes me wonder: was he really that insecure all along? How did I not see that? It reeks of a lack of confidence in both himself and the relationship we had together. He is measuring his self worth based on his ability to fuck people. Me? I’m worth a lot more than sex, and I’m really good at sex, so that’s saying something. Him? I guess he’s so afraid of being alone that he’ll take the first willing woman. Which makes me wonder: was I the first willing woman he could find? Is that all our relationship was? I was his remedy for loneliness?

The answer to that doesn’t matter now. I have too much self respect to even think about that. Also, I like myself and I enjoy my own company, so I’ll probably enjoy having some time to spend with myself.

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He’s Cumming

“Oh my god, I’m cumming!”

He whips out his dick and I look over in glee as, dick in hand, there it goes, squirting out, and now there’s come everywhere. I was kinda hoping he would cum inside me, but I think he’s dealt with too many pregnancies and abortions to fall for that one ever again, although, hey, I’m on the best birth control on the world. Maybe I should tell him. But now isn’t the time for that, as we’re lying there naked and both covered in cum and sweat. The sheets on my bed are slightly slipping off. The pillows are strewn across the floor. It’s like a stunned silence, this moment of afterglow. The sun breaking in from behind the curtains. Both of us lying there, too fucked to move, although I tell him there’s a towel over there, although should I stand up and hand it to him? I don’t feel like standing up. Not after all that fucking. Not after he made me cum like that and the delight of his dick inside me still has me reeling and nailed to the bed.

I don’t know if I should look at him or if I’m supposed to look away. I feel like a greedy child as my eyes graze over his thighs and his cock and the hair on his chest. I’m too afraid to look into his eyes and see what’s in there, so I lean for a little bit and kisses on neck. God, I love to watch him cum. I love to look at him right after he’s done cumming. I like the noises he makes, the things he says. I like feeling his body between my legs as slightly he loses it and succumbs to the sensation of cumming. And cumming. Sometimes I almost want to laugh when he cums, because there’s something inherently funny about cumming. The noises and the motions of cumming – it’s not very serious, but I know if I laugh it might be perceived as ridicule. But, really, I laugh because I’m enjoying every moment of everything that is happening, and I’m thrilled by his dick as he squirts out cum. The beautiful cum. I made him cum. I love making him cum.

God, I would do anything to make him cum. I would make him cum all day, every day, if only he gave me the chance. I would bend over backward just to make him cum, and sometimes I do. I would crawl through dirt with half the produce section rammed up my ass if it would only make him cum. I want him to be cumming forever, here, with me, or at least fucking as furiously as we possibly can. I find a slice of my self worth in his orgasms (and also mine), and I would do anything to make him cum because I know he would do anything to make me cum, too. But enough about me, because isn’t this blog about how much I like to cum all the time? And what about him, the one who makes me cum? The one who makes me cum like crazy whenever I want? I wish that there were some way I could repay him for all the orgasms he has given me, so kindly and so patiently. I know that I will never be able to make him cum as much as he makes me cum, and I guess that is okay, because there are so many men before him (and after, too) who didn’t care nearly as much about my orgasm as he did. It was not nearly as much fun to make those men cum. It is not fun to watch a man cum, after all the work, especially if you know that your own orgasm will never be arriving any time soon. But him? He makes me cum all the time, and all I want is to do the same for him. I want to lie here forever, naked and heaving, covered in his cum and satisfied by knowing that I’m his baby and I make him cum the best out of all the rest of them, ever. If only dreams come true. One day…

When Does Sex End?

Does sex end when the guy cums? Or when the girl taps out? When do we stop fucking? I can never tell, personally, because no matter how much my body might be hurting or shutting down or dried up and desiccated, there’s something in my mind that screams, “Keep going!” Perhaps because I know that this moment will end eventually, but isn’t this everything that I have been working towards all week? Haven’t I wanted, above all other things, to be close to someone else? In the most carnal way possible. We need to keep fucking right now as an act of desperation in order to transcend our skin and our bones, and maybe if we fuck long enough and hard enough, one day we will wake up and we will no longer be separate, but we will have finally become two people in one body. Connected. Not forever, but for as long as it’s pleasant, and cumming is not symbolic of the end of everything that I am trying to achieve here. Cumming is something that I can do over and over again. I go to the gym and work out every day so that when the moment comes for me to take off my clothes and dive in, I will be awake and ready and able to fuck for as long as we need. Until we can fuck no longer. Until I can’t keep my eyes open. Until it is impossible to do this anymore. When my body is wreck and your dick is falling off. Until I can’t possibly cum one more time. Sex ends in a moment of failure, realizing that we are separate now, and we will always be separate, so we might as well sleep it off before we get up and drift apart tomorrow morning (or afternoon). Because sex doesn’t end after one person’s one orgasm, or even if he can’t get it up, or if I’m tired. Sex ends when I no longer want to be close to you, or I can no longer be close to you. Although, if I had my way, sex would never end, and we would be here forever, cycling in and out of fucking and sleeping and eating while the rest of the world melts away. I would like that. Wouldn’t you like that? To fuck me forever? I’ll call it true love, but all you have to do is call me back and come over tomorrow night. It will be wonderful. Forever.

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?

Read more →

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.