Say No to Quickies

As a woman, I never really understood quickies or how they were supposed to work for me. Maybe that’s because I’ve never had a successful quickie that brought me to a satisfactory climax. Mostly when I hear someone say, “Let’s have a quickie,” I, as a straight cis woman who fucks dudes, hear, “Hey, I want to cum and I don’t want to put in any work, and I’m going to cum prematurely, and I want you to be emotionally prepared for that, so can you lube up your vagina and make this work for me because why would I masturbate when a fully functional pussy is right there?”

Ugh. Stop.

I mean, I’m totally happy to hear anyone out who has had a great, successful quickie. (And by anyone, I mean fellow femmes and bottoms.) Me? I mostly feel like a cum rag after a quickie. I feel filled up with disappointment, not dick, and it makes me feel very confused. Like: why would I ever talk to you again? Why am I talking to you right now? Why did I talk to you in the first place? Why are you [20 or 30 something] and still oblivious to female sexuality? My pussy isn’t a button you press for two minutes and out pops an orgasm like an Easy-Bake Oven.

Of course, I wish my orgasms did pop out just on sheer mental power, but, alas, I’m a woman, and my orgasms are better than a man’s, so I guess that’s a fair trade off when the sex is good.

A Feminist Dilemma

Ok, I’m in a moral dilemma. Well, actually – no I’m not, but I do find myself in a situation that is making me think about things on a larger scale than usual, which I guess in some ways is a dilemma.

I like to stay abreast of Oakland gossip, just because I find other people’s lives to be interesting. Recently, I came across a bit of gossip that I found to be particularly juicy: someone’s husband was cheating on her.

While this is pretty standard, average gossip, the circumstances of the gossip are what piqued my interest. The woman in question? She’s one of my long time haters. She’s someone who has taken her time to slander me on the internet and to our colleagues. Her main quibbles with me are (in a nutshell) that I am anti-gentrification and pro-Islamic immigrants, and also that I am anti-gentrification but not cripplingly poor and actually doing well for myself professionally as a local woman of color. Basically, she hates my writing.

So, yeah, she’s a hater. Which is fine, she can do her own thing. I’m perfectly content not talking to her or not interacting with her – it doesn’t make my day worse, it makes it better.

However, over the past several weeks, three (yes, three!) different people have offered me accounts of her husband cheating on her. While, yes, I know, it’s not really any of my business, after having three people tell me that her husband cheats on her (and with people that she knows), I’ve started to notice a pattern. This here is hot gossip. Hot enough, in fact, that it has reached me, someone who is completely divested from her social circle, disinterested in her life, and in no way digging for dirt (promise). If three people have told me, someone who is very socially distant from her, how many people close to her are talking about it?

And, yeah, I also know, you’re probably thinking, “What if they have an open relationship. Then it doesn’t matter.” Yeah, that’s true, and I don’t know if they have an open relationship. All I know is: he’s acting like a pubescent boy, hitting up people that she and I and everyone else know, and he’s being messy, and his advances are rebuffed often enough for this to be a fairly cringe-y situation. Let’s just put it this way: if they were in a functional open relationship, people wouldn’t be talking about it so much.

I’m sure you’re all thinking at this point, “Pilar, don’t you derive joy from watching your enemies suffer?” And while the answer to that is always, “YES!” It’s also worth pointing out that I am, on a base level, somewhat concerned about the situation. You know, I try to be a feminist, and knowing that a woman is being humiliated by her husband in a public arena doesn’t sit well with my feminist ideology. I wonder: who is looking out for her? If the gossip has spread so far and wide that three separate people (whom, I might add, don’t have any social overlap with each other but all know the woman in question through different ways) have told me, I wonder: who on her team is coaching her through this? Who is sticking up for her? Who is helping her through this difficult time? Who is helping her keep her private life private? Whoever is helping her is not doing a good job.

So, herein lies the dilemma. I am trying to be a better feminist these days. Regardless of whether or not I like this person, I don’t think any woman should let her partner publicly humiliate her with rampant infidelity, whether it’s within or outside of an open relationship. Their relationship should be their relationship, and not something the rest of us are watching burn in a car wreck while eating popcorn on the sidelines. She may disagree with me about gentrification and immigration – fuck, by that logic, she might disagree with me about feminism, too. But I don’t want to have to hear about her relationship. I wish people would stop telling me, because I don’t want to have to think about whether or not I feel vindicated by watching her husband cheat on her, and I don’t want to have to think about whether I have any moral obligations as a feminist to say something.

I guess I just believe in happy endings. As a feminist, the happy ending here is she leaves him.

But I also don’t believe that this story is any of my business. It’s something that has been spread throughout the community via petty gossip. I don’t want to have to think about this or look at this. I shouldn’t have to. It’s not fair to either me or her that I’m sitting here, speculating about the demise of her marriage. Because, who knows, maybe I’m completely wrong and the rumors are false. (Actually, if the rumors are false, that’s even worse because that means she has an enemy even scarier than me who is willing to go to “those lengths” to hurt her.) But, in the event that I’m completely wrong, and everything is beautiful in her paradise, and she knows, and she’s okay with it, and the rumors are just exaggerated, and I’m being a judgmental bitch – this is all still incredibly uncomfortable for me. Please leave me out of this.

Witness to Transphobia

I was talking to my friend last week, and he asked me, “Have you seen *relevant trans woman* on Instagram lately?” It was a harmless question, and one that had more to do with social media than transphobia. However, when he asked me the same question a few days later, I realized: my friend is watching everything that this *relevant trans woman* puts on the Internet. And is so interested in it that he brings it to my attention. Is it possible that he has a crush on her?

Yes, it’s possible that he has a crush on her, but as I was thinking about him and her, and his dating history, and our society’s general perspective on trans people, I realized: even if he does have a crush on her, he probably doesn’t know it. He probably wouldn’t admit it. Him showing me her social media posts feels more like him trying to validate his interest in her, a way to gauge my reaction, to, in a sense, get my approval of even the vaguest interest in a trans woman.

I have no idea what it’s like to be a trans woman, but just witnessing my friend’s mild yet restrained interest in a trans woman was hard to watch. Not only does our society pathologize trans people, it also pathologizes people who are attracted to trans people. In many ways, people are trained to process their attraction to anything beyond the cis heteronormative social construct as a perversion, a fascination, even a mental illness.

Our society highly regulates acceptable forms of attraction. Attraction to children, animals, and blood lust are not acceptable forms of attraction, but because of an assumed proximity between those attractions and the attraction to trans people, homosexuality, kink, BDSM, anything in between there and heterosexuality is condemned. This leaves the people in the middle left to fend for themselves in a sea of shame and misery, even though there is nothing fundamentally pathological about those modes of sexuality.

I don’t know how to tell my friend that it’s okay for him to be attracted to whomever he is attracted to. Part of me is afraid that if I even broach the idea of him with a trans woman that his innate, toxic masculine reaction will be one of denial and perhaps even violence. I don’t know how to tell him that he can love whoever he wants to love, and he needs to work through this internal conflicts on his own. I don’t want him to put the burden of his internal conflict on another party – I don’t want him to enter into a relationship, sexual, romantic, or otherwise, by making that person validate him and prove to him that they are worthy of love, affection and sex. I want him to know that he can be attracted to someone, he can want to date someone, he can want to be in a relationship with someone, and he doesn’t have to hide. I will support him.

If anything, I’m disappointed that we, as a culture, haven’t moved past this. As we push for trans visibility in our society, I hope that the people who are attracted to trans people and who love trans people would likewise be comfortable with a degree of visibility that doesn’t compromise their privacy and doesn’t lend to a sense of cultural shame.

At the end of the day, it’s not really my business who my friend decides to date or fuck, as long as he’s happy. It is my business, however, if he continues to contribute to transphobic attitudes when it comes to dating and attraction.

Someone Called Me A Slut!

I heard a rumor that someone called me a slut at a bar last week! The news made me feel so…warm inside. It’s been a long time since someone called me a slut, and, honestly, I don’t really deserve the accolade anymore. I’m in relationship land these days, but, hey, if someone wants to go #tbt and call me a slut, I’ll take it!

The person in question who called me and my drinking companions slut is someone I can readily tell you is very small minded. From experience, I know that when a woman calls you a slut it’s because she’s jealous or threatened by your sexual affluence. This was definitely the case here. I know it’s anti-feminist to draw on the hotness scale as an indicator of that party’s bitterness, but I can say that I think some of the people in our group had hooked up with one of her friends within the past two years. Petty!

As usual, me and my friends are all very pretty and we look good at the bar when we’re drinking together. Shout out to the person who called us sluts. Talk about a throwback! I didn’t even know people still used that word. In all honesty, points off for lack of creativity, and try better next time. But I’ll take what I can get. I appreciate the compliment.

Splitting the Difference: Financial Investment Versus Emotional Investment in Modern Romantic Relationships

Men are so eager today to talk about wanting to split the check. I’ve already written about the socioeconomic implications of splitting the check and abolishing the glass ceiling. A 2015 study showed that women make 83% of what men make, so if you’re splitting a check on the first date it’s practical to split it 41.5% (woman) – 58.5% (man). Men picking up the check on dates is a nod to women historically being excluded from the workplace (although, yes that is changing). It is also a reflection of our culture’s male status as the bread winner in a household (which is also changing) – if a man isn’t fit enough to pick up the check, then he won’t be a good provider for those theoretical children. But all of this is changing.

As this changes, it’s worth letting men know about the power implications of the collective financial dating decisions. If you are a man who complains about splitting the check 50/50, are you also a man who fights for women’s right to equal pay in the workforce? If you are a man who complains about splitting the check 50/50, do you expect total equality in all other aspects of the relationship? It’s unfair to expect financial equality – which is certainly a new kind of equality in our society – if you don’t expect equality in all other aspects of the relationship, such as shared house duties, emotional labor, emotional availability, mutual intellectual respect, shared decision making. Or, what I’m saying is: as a man, have you proven that you are worthy of splitting the check by proving that you believe in all the non-monetary aspects of equality in a relationship?

If men want to talk about financial equality in a relationship, I’d hope that they would examine where this dated system comes from and why it was expected for so long. As we change those expectations of the power dynamic in our relationships, the financial aspect is merely one facet of a relationship that needs equality, but it is the one that is most commonly harped upon by men in the dating scene. Financial investment in a relationship is just as valid a currency as emotional investment in a relationship – and heretofore, the common balance put the burden of financial investment on the man and the burden of emotional investment on the woman. Let’s change that.

So, let me tell you: I am ready for equality. I am ready to discard the machismo-damsel in distress complex that dating has foisted upon us. I am okay with being the first one to reach out. I am okay with asking you out. I am okay with picking you up and driving you around. I am okay with making the first move. I am okay with taking the time to understand your vulnerabilities and your sexual insecurities. I am okay with splitting the bill. But I’m only okay with this if you meet me half way. I expect that you would do the same for me, but that you would also not talk over me in conversations. That you would respect my career and my ambitions. That you would help with chores without needing to be asked. That you wouldn’t expect that my dreams and goals take a back seat to major life changes, such as having children or moving to a different city.

All of this starts on day one. If we are changing the balance of financial investment in our romantic relationships, then we also need to modify the expectations of emotional investment. I can’t be expected to split the check 50/50 if all I get out of this is…nothing. So, I guess this is me saying: if I don’t split the check, it’s because I’m getting nothing out of your company other than food and drink, but I work in the food and drink industry, so I don’t have to do that anymore.

Gender Is Not A Weapon

I was recently reading some Internet thread by some TERFs who were making an argument for excluding trans people from the roller derby world. While, yes, this is a long debate and as a cis, non-athletic woman I don’t know much about the topic, there was one thing that struck me: throughout the conversation, trans women were consistently referred to as men.

What’s strange about the TERFs’ decision to call trans women men is comparative, selective gender assignment by third parties. We live in a very homophobic culture; men are constantly called sissies, pussies, bitches – epithets used to evoke a sense of femininity and a dearth of masculinity in the subject’s mind. This is even more common with gay men; third parties try to cleave gay men from their sense of masculinity and assign them a feminine gender identity.

However, in the case of the online roller derby discussion, that is no longer the case. AMAB, femme presenting women are being called men just for the sake of argument. Because it’s convenient to see them as men as a means of exclusion, just as gay men are called sissies or little girls in order to ostracize them in a different context.

There’s no winning here. And it doesn’t make sense either – it’s as though the gender identity of trans and gay people are at our whim. We don’t give them power to express and perform their gender identity without the constant commentary telling them that they’re doing it wrong or they don’t fit in. This is done as a means to expel them from our social activities. We shape this argument to fit our whims of exclusion.

This has to stop. It’s just ridiculous. Being concerned about someone else’s gender identity is exhausting. Enough with the convenient epithets and using gender as a weapon against people who are breaking the mold. Let a bitch live!

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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?

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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.