Winning And Losing The Chase Game

One of the games to play is the chase. Now, I know what people say: I don’t like playing games. But if you think that sex and romance is something other than fun and games, if it should be something less than playing, then what, I ask you, should sex and romance be? Sure, the idea isn’t to toy with people, but, rather, the idea is that you should enjoy yourself. Be mischievous. Explore. Dare. Play.

The bar chase is an entry level game to play with would be lovers. It involves being in a bar full of people you know and experimenting with the magnetism of attraction. Even in a room full of people, can you find me? Can I find you? Not in a “Where’s Waldo” sense of finding someone, but am I drawn to you despite thirty other people standing between us right now? Can I feel you four feet away from me, and can I not help but look over, and there you are.

And what would happen if I walk away from you. Do your eyes flit quickly across the room, scanning for my face. And when you see me, do our eyes catch. Am I the only person in this room right now? I am getting drunker and drunker, and I am waiting for you to grab me and tell me that we should leave right now.

But then there are the other times, when I completely forget about who it is I’m supposed to be wanting in this room. These are my bad dates and indifferent lovers, who I lose in the crowd as I amble towards the bar. Perhaps I am finding my friends too quickly, and it is getting hard to concentrate on my attraction to you when there is so much other stuff happening in this bar right now. We have lost the game of chase to extenuating circumstances that have nabbed my attention in lieu of you. I am laughing with the queens in the corner or I am chasing cocaine into the ladies’ bathroom. Incoming text messages have left a glazed over look in my eye, and eventually I will meander out of here without you, without saying goodbye, without wanting you, without asking you to come back with me, without an apology text message. The test of our attraction has lost at the game of chase. And instead I am chasing something else: anything other than you.

In A Prison of Distance

Is this even real. As I’m sitting here, receiving incoming text messages from some long gone lover who has left and gone a hundred miles up north to “find his soul,” and I haven’t budged in the past month. But all of a sudden this all feels so strange, these surging emotions that ebb and flow at the mercy of these text messages, which read like some sad saga of what the fuck is happening.

That’s what I’d like to know – what the fuck is happening. Why is he gone and why is he saying these things now, when he could have said these things before he left, or he could have just never left. It feels cruel, almost, these bright, little missives between parted lovers, that harken too readily on a past that might never resurface. It’s easy to care from far away. I find that it’s easier to love someone who will never show up at your door at 3 am high and in a rage. It’s easier to tell the truth to someone who can’t fuck your best friend or hit you in the face. There’s a comfort in me saying the things I could never say to him if he were still here, mostly because I’m not brave enough to say those kinds of things. Maybe we are both cowards.

This is why I’m not sure if this is even real. If I could have said those things when he was here, that would be real. Perhaps too real for my own comfort. And he is saying these things that make my heart jump into my throat. He says things about sadness and distance, but I know that if I could add up enough things to say that would make him come back, even if he came back, it would feel different from what I’m feeling now. This is safe. I can tell him he’s the best I ever had with no repercussions. I can talk about love. I think this might be really fucked up.

Why couldn’t I say these things when he was here. And is it the same for him – now that things are over, it’s easy to pretend like what we had was more than what it was? Or is it exactly that. Is this the truth? Have I finally found a way to say the things I didn’t know how to say, and it took a hundred miles between us for me to finally let go? What does any of this mean. Where is this going. How will it end.

The only thing that I know is real are my emotions. All I know is that I am starting to feel in this big, sweeping way these overwhelming emotions that I don’t know how to name, but it is because of him and the things he says to me. Now, more than ever, I crave a touch that has probably disappeared forever. I am rotting inside my own memories of him, and I feeling things in a quiet way, and I am kicking myself, because isn’t this just another ploy that I play on myself in order to be emotionally unavailable to the people who are here, right now? It is so much easier to waste time dreaming about someone who will never come back than to look around at who’s here now.

How Many People Do You Have To Fuck Before You’re Objectively Considered Good In Bed?

I tend to prefer fucking men who are known to be more promiscuous, mostly because there’s the shared experience of promiscuity, and also a guy who has fucked a lot of people is more likely to be knowledgeable on things like the location of the clitoris, STDs, consent and how to properly execute anal sex. Which isn’t meant as a diss towards the less sexually affluent men among us; it’s more about statistical analysis than prude shaming. I mean, doesn’t it make sense? If a guy has fucked a lot of women, he probably has a range of experiences from which to draw, and in summation those experiences will make him a better lover?

Wrong.

Unfortunately, it has come time for me to dispel a common myth about my fellow sluts and players. Just because someone’s dick has been inside hundreds of pussies doesn’t necessarily make him a better lover. I know this from personal experience. Promiscuity doesn’t necessarily speak to sexual ability, although it does speak to an understanding of game, which at times can be predatory and at other times it’s an absolute art form. A man can jack hammer his way through six hundred girls just as easily as a woman can pillow queen her way through hundreds of sexual encounters. Having sex doesn’t automatically give someone a better grasp of communication, emotion or sexuality. It just means that person was motivated enough to have that many sexual experiences, and while a large number of sexual experiences doesn’t necessarily quantify someone’s moral compass or emotional capacity, it likewise does not indicate sexual prowess.

This has to do with conscientious promiscuity. If someone approaches their sexual encounters without any self awareness, sexual awareness or desire to learn, that someone might find themselves refusing to eat pussy time and time again, not figuring out the art of penetration over and over, and always looking slightly over the left shoulder during four to six minutes of missionary sex – hundreds of times. While each sexual encounter may be different, sexual growth and emotional growth are not implied hallmarks of promiscuity.

However, sexual and emotional growth can be a formative aspect of promiscuity if you’re doing it right. Sexual and emotional growth can be a formative aspect of less frequent sexual encounters, too. It’s all about how you approach it. If you’re learning from your sexual experiences – regarding such things as how to have a better orgasm, how to give a better orgasm, how to protract sexual pleasure, how to communicate effectively, how to explore different aspects os sexuality – then bingo. This can take one partner or it can be learned over the course of hundreds of partners. What matters is that you’re learning (if that’s what you’re into).

It’s different for every person. Some people are naturals and make excellent partner selections every time, enabling them to enter sexually satisfying relationships on a consistent basis. Other people learn better through noncommital, short term, experimental relationships. Other people suck in bed, and there’s no amount of sex that can change that. Although, sucking in bed is a subjective assessment, so maybe it’s more like some people don’t know what they’re doing and still don’t know how to enjoy themselves regardless of the number of sexual encounters they have. Sucks for them.

Power Roles

He’s sitting there, and we’re talking, or, rather, I’m silently nodding while he tells me about his day. About his job. I smile gently, because I know that’s why I’m here: I’m here to listen, not to speak. My role on this date is not a speaking role, it is as the supporting actress/romantic interest, but in order to be romantically interesting to him, I have to smile and nod when he talks about his job.

When the question is returned to me, “How was your day? What did you do?” I brush it off quickly, mostly because I know that I wasn’t brought here to tell him about my interviews and my emails and the events I worked on and my suddenly blossoming career. He has just finished telling me about his day and his work, and I know that he didn’t ask the question in return so that I could compete with him. That’s not what he wants. That would clash with the internalized monologue we are both signing off on wherein he is the successful, financially responsible one of the pair right now.

And this, ladies and gentlemen, is exactly why I find myself downplaying my accomplishments in life: I don’t want to scare him away. It’s something I only slightly resent, but I’m starting to get tired of it. When we finish our round at this bar and then head to the next one, we’ll find ourselves in a situation that he won’t know how to handle: I’ll know everyone at the bar, and he’ll know only a few. Which is another interesting dating phenomenon I have to come to terms with; when I was younger, I was always so impressed when I went out with men who knew everyone at the bar or the club. I thought it was so cool, and in that moment I decided I wanted to be like that: well known, well respected. I thought for some reason that by being on the same social level as the men I date, that I’d be more appealing and seen as an equal. Now, however, as I swim around being single, I have found that men actually don’t want someone who can keep up because being able to keep up is being perceived as outpacing. I am outpacing them.

So I sit here, and I don’t talk about the things I do, and I try to wave off the people I know, but the fact of the matter is: as soon as this date is done, I’m going to go back to my normal life, wherein I am doing things and knowing people and not apologizing. I will not be trying to downplay my accomplishments or my social standing just to make a man I am on a date with feel better about paying for everything tonight. In fact, maybe I should stop going on dates with people who are beneath me, although, no, that’s not it. It’s not that they’re beneath me, it’s just that the power I have accumulated in life is a lot more flashy and quantifiable than theirs. It’s not that I think I’m better, it’s just that I grasp the nuance of power dynamics in gendered relationships better than they do, so as soon as I see the insecurity welling up around their eyes, I pull back. Not to mention, I’m not a dominant, controlling person, and I play my gender role gracefully. Really, I’m just a submissive girl looking for her dominant equal, but where have all the good doms gone these days? I’m sick of being more powerful and pretending to be powerless. It’s not a fun game, and in all honesty it just seems like no one can keep up these days. Can you?

A Day In The Life Of The Pretty Girl Gun Club

He taught me where to shoot, and now I sit in my room and wait for a criminal to pass back through. He looked me in the eye and held my hand told me, “Pilar, you need to shoot him in the knee or in the stomach. Anywhere else, the body goes into shock and you can’t feel the pain. The stomach and the knee – your body feels the whole pain. And then you can stand over him, and you can watch him writhe in pain. And then, when you’re holding the gun in your hand, you can decide if you wanna be nice and just shoot him in the head, or you can sit back and watch him bleed out.” He was tender with his words, and he held me in the dark as we slugged down more whiskey and stared at the walls. Now he is gone, and I am still here with my gun and my bullets and my aim is getting better.

On Dragging And Being Dragged

I’ve been getting dragged on the Internet since 2011, and let me tell you – oof, it is not good for my crippling anxiety. There’s nothing quite like a cyber mob saying mean shit about you in an intangible manner that makes you feel like, “Am I going to have to fight these assholes?” Because the thing about being dragged is it’s in some ways confrontational, and in other ways not; people don’t need to have names or faces in order to defame your character online, but it’s definitely still a fucking attack.

The thing about being dragged is it’s different from cyber bullying but probably still lies under the umbrella term of cyber bullying just as a special type of cyber bullying. Getting dragged is more about an angry mob coming to the town square (usually Facebook or Twitter or Instagram or some other public social network) and holding an impromptu court wherein they decide your fate on the Internet. Sometimes this can have little to no repercussions in your day to day life, and sometimes people rally together to get you kicked out of certain places. Your public information is all fair game, as is your phone number and your address and your tweets and your selfies and any work you’ve ever done in porn. You and your actions basically become the impetus behind an angry mob.

Having been dragged for various reasons (hey, I run a sex blog, and I’ve said some pretty public things against gentrification, and also I’m just around being light weight scandalous at most times), I must admit: it’s a bizarre experience that nothing in my life previous to this could have prepared me for. Mostly because after a couple of years I know how to deal with it; people wanna hate, people wanna talk shit, and they’re fully allowed to do that. The difference between 2016 and back when there weren’t public forums and comment sections is: did you know that at any point in time if you ever did anything, people would talk shit about you behind your back, but now it’s 2016 so people can talk shit about you behind your back and you can read about it online? This was always happening. People were always saying these things. It was just hard to know exactly what people were saying unless you had a really solid friend who would loop you in on what was happening.

And that’s the thing about getting dragged: you can log in and check out the comments, or you can leave your house and see what happens then. Because regardless of what people say on the Internet, it’s what happens when you step outside that really counts. And what counts the most out of all that are two things: are your friends still your friends, and did anybody fuck with your money. Because drama happens, but once it transcends the Internet and into real life, you gotta keep tabs on the things that count. The haters were always going to hate, and the haters were always going to hang out where haters hang out, but once the haters figure out a way to fuck with your day ones and your money, then you have a problem. Until that happens – then, nah, you’re cool.

As a writer, this presents a particularly interesting paradigm because I’ve learned a couple things recently. Firstly, people who live in the comment sections can stay living there, but they can talk to me when their full name lands on the homepage. Then they’ll have a voice worth listening to. Secondly, anyone who wants to put my personal information out there and act like they know me on the Internet – well, if you know me, come talk to me. You don’t gotta hide behind writing on the bathroom wall (legit experience I’ve had) or using an anon username in the comments section – why don’t you come talk to me in person if you act like you know me like that?

Anyways, getting dragged prepares you for a life of aggression that after a couple years I have come to realize isn’t actually real. Nobody really fights anymore, and it’s easy to hide behind a comment section with two other random people, but it’s hard to come up to me and my friends on neutral turf and speak your mind like an adult. So, drag away, Internet. Drag away. I’ll continue living life in the physical realm, and I don’t really check comment sections anyways. I like myself too much for that.

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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.