Relearning to Love

We sit here quietly, and it’s in moments like these that I can finally breathe again. Moments when the chaos has died down, when the outside world is no longer knocking on our door. When we can sit here in silence and everything is okay. Eating greens at the kitchen table, and he puts his hand on mine. Such a simple yet sophisticated gesture. We are not speaking, we are simply sitting here. There is no reason to argue, no drama of the day. No reason for suspicious looks or wondering who is he texting on his phone right now. Who else is he thinking about.

It’s our moment of calm at the kitchen table in a world of chaos. And isn’t this what it’s about – to get away from all of that for just a few minutes. A chance to rest, and with him I feel at ease. I feel okay when he’s here, and his hand on my hand. We can look at each other and smile and say nothing at all.

It’s a calmness that almost frightens me. When the rest of the world has trained itself to bark like a dog at any movement or sound. Let’s be honest – how many men have I dated just because they wanted someone to fuck and fight with? A lot. It’s strange when love looks like violence. It’s strange to finally learn that love doesn’t have to be like that. In some ways, I don’t know how to sit still. I don’t know how to not fight. I don’t know how to enjoy the moment, although it’s not like I enjoy the moments when I am in pain and fighting with the man I love. I just don’t know love any other way.

But I am starting to like it. I think I could live like this. I smile, and the moment passes, but even when it’s gone, I know that everything is going to be okay. So long as I’m with my baby.

In The War Of Waiting

He doesn’t show up exactly when I want him to, and I can feel my heart hardening as I check yet again for incoming text messages or some missive of “I am here” or “I am close” or “I am coming.” I try not to waiver, but I know that I need him. I can’t live without him, and this waiting is killing me. I am perched on the edge of the bed in my prettiest party girl clothes, and suddenly I wonder: what will I do if he never shows up? Will I wither here and die? Or will I burst back out, brawling with whatever inner demon is currently itching inside my ear and telling me all the bad things that must be happening because he is not here, right now with me.

I try to quiet the sound of my own insecurities with a nip from the bottle and a few moments of TV. Anything to turn off the sound of “maybe he doesn’t love me” like a leaky faucet keeping me up at nights, clawing away the confidence that I have worked so hard to build. Where is he?

One more text message will not solve the problem. One more unread text message will not make me calm. All I can do is sit here and wait.

Although, fuck waiting, maybe I should call that other boy who might love me and see what he is doing instead. I can quell myself with the bootleg affections of some inferior man who will ply me with liquor and tell me I’m pretty. Sometimes it does the trick. Sometimes I find myself sitting there, phone in hand, distracted, and my phone only vibrates because I quiver with rage.

How could he forget me. How could he not want to see me when I feel like this. When I need him. Why doesn’t he need me like I need him? How can he live in this city without seeing me everyday? What kind of monster is he beneath all he is? What kind of cruelty is he built from? How has he left me here?

It has only been five minutes since this panic attack begin. But it will continue indefinitely until the relief of time or his text message cures me from this fever. The punishment of love is knowing that I can never be with him forever. When he is not with me, he is anywhere but here. That’s the most frightening thing of all.

Leaving Me

Fingers twist tightly around whatever flesh I can hang onto in this almost over moment. I can feel him leaving. I can see him walking out the door. We are lying here together, but as long as we are both breathing, we are both catapulting ourselves into the impending doom of being apart, yet again.

Apart is so dangerous when the rest of the world is cleaving its way between us. Hands grab phones, and already we are not thinking about each other. To the bathroom he goes while I lie here in agony, without him. And how soon will it be before he’s far away? Before he’s too far to come back? When we are devastated by distance and left only to our own devices and other people to fill the hole in our hearts.

Come back to me. I close my eyes tightly and pray for him to come back to me. I pray that I can forget that he ever left me here in the first place. That I can be back in the moment when I was lying here, waiting, and then he finally opened the door and came in. Take me back to a place and a time where we close and in love. I would like to live twenty minutes ago for the rest of time.

Cease To Exist

And then he’s gone. He’s no longer here. In every moment that he is not here, tender at the end of my finger tips, is he even real? I am not entirely convinced that he is out there in the world if I cannot see him. Although, my social media feeds have become such an excellent reminder of the fact that people exist even when I cannot see them. If it weren’t for that, I might thoroughly believe that I am the only person in the world and anything that I cannot behold first hand is not a factor in reality.

What does he do when he’s not here. Who does he become. I realize that the answer to those questions have no effect on me whatsoever, so it’s hard to muster the strength to care. About him or anyone else when I am not in direct contact with them. Does he simply retire into a state of slumber? How does he live when I’m not watching?

He exists without me when I’m not around, which I find hard to believe. But he would be hard pressed to fathom that I continue to live life even when he’s not around. It’s a mutual feeling: you are nothing without me. If I cannot see you or touch you or taste you, how can you prove to me that you are real?

He vanishes in the blink of an eye, and I’m left here to be concerned only with the people in my life. Anyone who is not here right now is not important to me. Which is why he is not here.

Do You Fluff Your Number?

“Did you used to date so-and-so?”

It’s late, and my boo is asking me about his coworker, who I saw earlier tonight.

“No,” I reply.

“He said you did.”

“Really!” I can tell that my boo does not like that he has to ask this question, but I’m fucking fascinated by what he just said. “That guy said we dated? We never even slept together! I barely even know him!”

“Well, that’s what he said.” I can tell that my boo is confused, probably because he hasn’t been in this situation with me before. But I have been here many times: another random dude in Oakland is lying about fucking me. So funny!

I laugh it off, but I can tell my boo still isn’t very comfortable with the situation. I’m not sure what I can say here that doesn’t make me sound like an absolute harlot, so I take his hand, I smile, and I say, “You know how guys are. They lie about things trying to act cool.”

Yeah. You know how guys are. We all have to live with men in our lives, and, oof, let me tell you, girlfriend, guys lie through their teeth about who they fuck. Constantly. I don’t really get it. Supposedly, women lie about who they fuck, too, but they try to downplay it because society hates a slut. Men, on the other hand, fluff up their numbers – because society loves a stud.

But in the modern era, lying about who you fuck is just trashy. I think we can all agree that who you fuck and how you fuck and where you fuck and all those gory details don’t really matter to anyone you’re not fucking. Even some of the people you fuck probably don’t care. So there’s no reason to be dishonest about it. There’s no point in making shit up.

Having (on multiple occasions) been the victim of some guy trying to fluff up his numbers, let me tell you: you just look fucking dumb. I get that me and also most of my sexually affluent friends have been around the block a few times, so trying to sneak yourself onto my bedpost notch might at first glance seem like something that might go unnoticed. What’s the difference between 57 notches and 58 notches? Between 92 and 93 notches? Some people aren’t counting.

But some people are counting. In fact, I’m counting. I know how many people I fucked, and I remember all their names and all their faces and all the circumstances. Sure, I was drunk for several of those encounters, but never too drunk to remember that I fucked.

So, I remember you. And I remember that we never fucked.

Honestly, I’m offended that you think you can walk around with my name in your mouth trying to improve your ho credentials by saying we fucked. And you look sus around the people that I do fuck, because they report back to me, and they tell me in so many words that they knew you were a liar because you couldn’t even name any of my signature fuck moves. They told me that they could tell you had read this blog, but reading this blog and having an imagination doesn’t mean we fucked. And it doesn’t mean you can talk about having fucked me, especially around the people who fuck me.

Can you quit it with the silly little lies? I’m aware that we live in a society where men have more credibility and more of a voice than women, but, well, what do you think I’m trying to accomplish with this blog?

Waking Up With The One You Love

When I fall asleep, he is next to me. When I wake up in the morning, I am in his arms, and because of that, everything feels slightly better. I feel slightly safer and slightly stronger, which isn’t meant to denigrate my own personal strength, but rather to state that together we are better.

Softly in the morning light, and as my eyes flutter open: there he is. Wrapped around me tightly, like maybe I should never leave. If I could, I would be here, forever, in this moment with him. Before the phones open up and the emails are read. Before the news of the horror of today rolls in. Before we remember where we have to go and what we have to do. It is all just right now, this fleeting moment of peace. The few seconds where I can breathe, beneath these sheets, with him.

But of course it doesn’t last forever. Would it still be good if it did last forever? Perhaps it’s all the toiling that I do throughout the day that makes this moment so sweet. Me at the bus stop, with him on my mind. Me, at work, making money, and the thought of him is what makes me smile. At night, when I wait for him, and I know he is coming. I sleep so soundly knowing that he is the first thing I see each morning. There are no nightmares when I lie down next to him.

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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.