A Thesis Against Our Interpersonal Paranoia

Well, I’ll be honest with you here. This blog definitely gets in the way of a lot of my sexual relationships, mostly because men are intimidated to read about my sexual exploits and my psychological analysis of amalgamated characters that may or may not be based on them and their particular shortcomings. This presents a whole host of problems, mostly with men saying, “Why did you say that about me?”

To which I reply, “Say what?” (Because I say a lot of bullshit on here, and honestly as soon as I say it, I tend to forget what I’ve said. There’s not a lot of thought that goes into this.)

“You said that I was a junkie addict with dick issues and that no one would ever love me.”

“Oh…um…well….that wasn’t about you….” This kind of exchange happens a lot; I think in my younger years I fetishized the narratives of junkie artists, mostly because that was the kind of narrative I was exposed to as a kid: everything rock and roll. (Which I resent now, but that narrative transcends the music genre of rock and roll and tends to define the creative milieu.) Being a lost soul was supposed to be glamorous, and wasn’t that the appeal of Oakland back in 2005? We were all lost souls, defiant creatives, wilting artists who could hold a job at a coffee shop, pay rent, and also work only three days a week in between drinking and drugging and fucking and arting. I realize that this narrative has changed inherently due to current economic conditions. Or, really, what actually happened is we all moved to Oakland to be in Oakland, but now Oakland is gone and we’re still here.

Anyways, I forget this every time and with every new relationship. I’m running on the fumes of fantasy here and writing about people and a place that don’t even exist anymore. In my writing style, I try to build characters that are vague enough to be universally relatable; it’s about the meat of the emotion and the truth of the experience. I’m trying to build characters in which we can see ourselves, who speak to us and our sense of self rather than alienating the reader from the character by imposing race or social stature or economic conditions on the situation. However, I forget that when I’m sticking to a dark narrative, if the people in my life see themselves in the things that I say and the fictions I create, we must ask: does art imitate life, or does life imitate art?

It’s true that when I started this blog, things were a lot more real and a lot more personal. Part of this is because I was young and I thought that I could hang people out to dry on the Internet and that would be cool. Another part of this is that my lifestyle fit into the above mentioned artistic milieu I was trying to envisage. But I’m older now, and I don’t really do that anymore, but this hasn’t changed the fact that this blog impacts my relationships on the same level.

Until recently.

Up until now, my lovers tend to either read my blog and hate it, or they don’t read it at all and pretend it doesn’t exist. This puts me in a predicament because clearly my blog is a big a part of my creative endeavor and therefore my life. To have a lover either hate or ignore that part of me is to allow myself to be incomplete in my relationship. Having a lover hate my writing is hurtful, mostly because it belies the fact that he and I can’t see eye to eye on the things that I want to do creatively, where I’m going with my work, what I think about, or what I believe in. It means that he resents what I do creatively, and it’s okay for him to resent that part of me because it’s seen as exploitative. We don’t have conversations about my blog, or, if we do, they are painful and filled with tears and rifts in the relationship. If a man ignores my blog, it means that there’s a side of me that he’s not seeing, that he’s choosing to not see, and in that way this isn’t a whole relationship because if he’s not man enough to read the things I write and react to them like an adult, then what kind of relationship is this?

For a long time, I thought that I was saddled with these two options, both of which are miserable. This is incredibly unfair, because male artists get to objectify their muses constantly, and that’s called art because revering the female form even in disgust is supposed to be something that we just put up with. We are supposed to pose for the camera and inspire songs, and we are supposed to like it. We are supposed to be flattered. But these men are not flattered.

Until recently.

Am I the only one who found your blog and was like swoon?

He said that to me in the middle of a casual text conversation when I was at work, and at the time I thought, ‘yeah,’ but later I realized, actually, absolutely and completely: YES. I realized that, for the first time, I was talking to someone who was smart enough to realize that this blog is both about him and not about him. It’s based on my experiences, but it’s not personal. This blog isn’t a coded, secret message between me and you, it’s a blurry, half assed, half truth story that is meant to capture something bigger than both of us, even if we are in some ways and sometimes characters within it. This isn’t my diary (although sometimes it’s my diary), and this isn’t a verbatim recounting of my life right here, right now, with these people.

He gets it. And for the first time I can talk to somebody about my writing because unlike most of the other people out there, he actually reads my blog often enough to have something interesting to say in response. And because the artistry of the craft of writing and the wit of communication aren’t lost on him, it’s an interesting conversation. It’s not a series of leveled, defensive accusations, but a creative, curious conversation because of course I already know that I write in a cruel tone. But no one has ever held me accountable for the things I say in a way that makes sense. No one has ever been able to talk to me on my level about my blog. Because of course I am responsible for the things that I say here, but if we can’t have a rational conversation about it, then there’s nothing rational about the relationship or our communication in the first place.

And for him, too.

“I’ve never seen myself reflected back at myself through someone else’s eyes like that before. Usually it’s just rants and accusations. But you make deep cuts, and it still feels tender.”

And I know what this means. The rest of the world is not okay with the badness that is inside us, and they rally against it in the most vicious way possible because they cannot understand that an appeal to the senses and to our sensitivity might actually work, even in the face of our own insensitivities and senselessness.

I also realize that the ability to identify this quality within my blog, which is almost sinister and buried deep beneath layers of glitter and sneer, belies in him a duality of good and evil which exists simultaneously as both the goodness of having a strong enough sense of self and level of confidence to not feel threatened by calm and honest observations, and also a badness of narcissism wherein any reflection of the self becomes an utter fixation of vanity. But maybe that speaks to the duality of man in general and not the duality of this man in particular, because anybody without a solid sense of self would revere someone who is confident in their own identity as a narcissist, anyways. I am not bothered by tapping into either of those traits, nor am I afraid to deal with them as they come my way. Only someone much less self assured than me would be intimidated by someone who knows who he is. And I am only irritated by anything less than that; perhaps it is the men who are still grasping at an identity they cannot yet define or hold onto who are the ones that I cannot stand.

It must be painful to see yourself, and it must be more painful if you do not know yourself at all. It is hard to sit here and have someone else tell me who I am or what I should be feeling. It’s awful really, but the worst part is when someone else is right about the worst things inside me that I pretend do not exist in the first place. Perhaps I would be better off to confront and define these demons on my own time. That way no one could pick them up and throw them back in my face, where they would consume me. I am not defined by my demons, and you shouldn’t be, either. My demons are my friends who carry the weight of the judgment that the rest of the world foists upon me. Who carries that weight for you?

Gay Parties For Straight People

“We’re going to the Britney Spears night at Starline. It’s going to be a bunch of gay men and 21 year olds.” We’re discussing our plans for the evening, and I, as usual, am prepared to venture into a bar not filled with eligible men. Or, actually, that’s not true. The gay parties sure do bring out the straight men, even if the straight men and women at gay parties function as social minorities. Which I enjoy, because parties where straight people are the majority tend to get tiresome and really sexual harass-y for people like me. It’s easier to go out stunting into a crowd full of people who aren’t going to try to pin you down and demand sexual attention than it is to surround yourself with straight men. And I think that some of the smarter straight men in this town know that – the really pretty, sexually open women will be at the gay parties, and only the men who are incredibly confident in their heterosexuality will be showing their faces there. We’re lucky, really, that we straight people get to hide in a crowd of LBGTQ people, and also we’re lucky that this is going to be a mostly POC crowd because, hey, it’s Oakland we have some of the hottest, most beautiful, most woke QOCs in the country here. Which is why intersectionality dictates that other ethnic minorities are allowed to kick it at the queer parties even if they register as less than 5% queer on the queer scale.

“Well, that doesn’t sound like my crowd,” says the guy I’m talking to. I smile, because, no, it isn’t your crowd. If you’re a straight man who is threatened by the idea of a gay man (or another straight man) making nuanced sexual advances to you on the dance floor, then, yeah, please don’t come. However, if you are a straight man who is secure in his sexuality, whether that means that you’re secure in saying no to another man’s advances, or if you’re secure enough in your heterosexuality to get your ass grabbed, make out a little, maybe do a little bit of dick sucking with the dudes, then that’s cool, too! As a woman, I must admit that I find it to be a bit of a turn on to see men so comfortable with something that most men revile. If you’re straight enough to have a good time in a room full of people who are most definitely going to go home and have a ton of butt sex tonight, then we are copacetic, because I’m down for butt sex, too! And now we don’t have to go through that awkward thing that straight people go through when I’m trying to figure out if you’re going to be grossed out by my asshole or squeamish about me putting a finger in there for you.

Which is exactly what happened when I showed up to the party: a bunch of early 30s gay men singing to Britney Spears, some lost but doeish looking 21 year old girls, and a gaggle of aggressively nonconforming men whose penchant for criminality and gay parties only coupled with the atmosphere of outlandishness and social outlaws. Me? I wiggled around, doing my thing, content to be surrounded by my people.

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.”


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.

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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.