People Are Trash: A Guide to Feminist In Fighting

I know that for the sake of the movement, I’m not supposed to talk about this. But, fuck it.

Part of me feels uncomfortable casting women as inherent moral superiors. There are qualities of femininity that I adore, and those qualities are much needed in our male dominated society in order to achieve balance. Femininity in a vacuum is just fine, but we are not in a vacuum. We are currently engaged in a power struggle that is trying to tip the balance from one side to the other.

I appreciate power struggles. Mostly because power needs to be a struggle. Without a struggle, power is too easily won, and then it becomes corrupt. The struggle operates as a natural check to power.

To be clear, I am here for the struggle, not the power. Which is probably why I’ve started to feel some type of way about feminism. Don’t get me wrong – women are still oppressed in society and have a long way to go before we achieve balance in the gender power struggle, much less any sort of feminine majority. But I live in a bubble, and my bubble is ahead of the curve when it comes to feminism and power struggles. We’re making progress out here.

I recently got into a four-line text message tiff with a fellow feminist with whom I had been working on a certain, specific feminist struggle. At the end of those four lines, I felt brushed off, demeaned and undervalued. It was ironic, mostly because we were working against a man who had brushed both of us off, demeaned both of us, and undervalued both of us.

To back track a bit, I want to reference to the new feminist slogan, “Men are trash.” It’s the type of slogan that can get you banned from Facebook or into some sort of Internet comment thread show down. It’s something that I believe and support.

However, after this little argument, I realized: you know what, yes, men are trash. But that’s not big picture enough. Instead, “People are trash.” Including me. Including her. Including you. Including them.

Nowadays, gender seems to be a favorite rallying cry for people engaged in the power struggle. Race, too, and also class. Famously, also: religion. People seem to love to draw arbitrary lines in the sand and claim moral superiority on one side or the other. I get it – to survive is to struggle. We do this because we need to survive.

As I said earlier, I believe in the struggle, not the power. Power, by its very nature, lends itself to corruption and abuses. I support the feminist movement because I support a transfer of power. And, yes, that transfer of power will be specifically beneficial to me. But even if we achieve a matriarchy, there will still be abuses of power. People will still be left on the sidelines. Someone will be oppressed while someone else profits. None of this will ever be perfect. So people like me will continue to fight.

Fighting with someone with whom I am supposed to have solidarity illuminated this idea for me. There will be no rest for the wicked, and all of us are wicked. So prepare yourself for a lifetime of fatigue. Ideological purism can be preached but never enacted. This is the nature of our human existence: nothing has ever been nor will ever be constant. Nothing here is permanent, not even the fight. We will make mistakes, and we will have to ask for forgiveness, and then we will make more mistakes. We will get some things right, and we will celebrate.

These sentiments aren’t intended to undermine the feminist struggle, but, rather, intended as a footnote to sweeping cultural change. Radicals who came before us tried their hardest to make this world the best place it could be – but entropy increases, and this world is still shit. Nothing we can do will ever be enough, and perhaps we just have to sit with that and accept it. This fight will never end.

This is why I’m an anarchist.

The Physicality of Love

We can talk about love, and we can talk about sex, and those two things can have nothing to do with each other. Or everything.

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He wanted me to love him. I could tell by the way he looked at me. He wanted to possess me, not in that way that is dangerous, but in a way where he could call me mine, and that would be okay.

I would have let him, too. He was good enough, and there were things about him that were worthy of love. It would have worked, and I wouldn’t have stopped him. I would have nourished it, too.

I thought that he knew me when he first started calling me. I thought that he understood. This game of love is played on every level, simultaneously, all the time. It is a game that we do not play as foes, but as allies. I don’t think he ever understood that I wasn’t playing against him. I was playing with him, but that is also a hard pill to swallow.

The sex of it all is what he underestimated. He suffered from the same problem that most men suffer from: their sexuality is inherently tied to their masculinity. I have noticed over time that this isn’t conducive to a functional, fulfilling sexuality. There are so many aspects of masculinity that are easily shattered.

The best sex that I have ever had has been with men whose sexuality is inherently tied to vulnerability. Being naked on the stage of the bedroom isn’t a masculine thing to do – it’s vulnerable. To do it well, you must be vulnerable. You must communicate. The facade of masculinity must come tumbling down. Strength and sexuality intermingle because in nakedness there is strength (if you can find it). Most people get that confused – they think that sexuality and nakedness intermingle because there is strength in nakedness. But that’s wrong. Most people are only strong with their clothes on. Take the clothes off, and the weaknesses rise to the top.

He didn’t understand his own sex, so how could he understand himself. If he didn’t understand himself, how could he ever be close to me?

Or maybe it’s that he never understood what I already knew about sex. I have lived for years in the dark, uninhabited corners of sex. I have been alone here in my orgasms with other men. I have said yes to everything and been abandoned by other people’s sexual fears. Until he can come find me in the dark recesses of sex and sit with me here forever, we will never be together.

I thought that he knew where to find me: halfway between broken and beautiful and on my back. I thought there was a tacit understanding that the mundane would no longer suffice. I thought he knew that to love me was to fuck me, and to fuck me was nothing short of erotic physical destruction. He didn’t understand how much he would have to make my body endure the pain of pleasure before my mind could go along, too.

To not fuck me well and to expect love from me – that is not what great relationships are built on. That’s just friendship.

Sociopaths In Love And Death

It felt like nothing.

I remember when he was standing at the edge my bed, the gun in his hand. He was telling me a story. Talking to me about what it felt like to kill a man. He told me it felt like nothing. There was no screaming, no crying, no gnashing of teeth. He didn’t stick around to see the blood run. He wouldn’t be standing at the funeral. He would never have to see the mother in all black and crying.

Every time I feel nothing when I’m supposed to feel something, I remind myself that this is what it feels like to kill a man: like nothing.

Every time I feel nothing when I’m supposed to feel something, I start to panic. It’s like a secret I hold to myself, this lack of feeling. Just like the secret he told me about what it feels like to kill a man. I try to paint my panic into whatever emotion I am supposed to feel, whatever sadness or regret or rage people expect. I put that emotion on my face and wear it until the mask slips off.

I have started to feel less and less these days. When he told me he missed me, I didn’t know what it meant. It was hard for me to understand, the idea of missing someone. All I could think was: those lyfts must be getting expensive now that I don’t let him use my car. I realized that I couldn’t understand what it felt like to miss another human being, to appreciate fundamental aspects of their personality and crave that.

I started to miss him because I wanted to know what it felt like to miss someone. It was okay – it didn’t hurt too much. It felt fine.

The other night, when he called me, sobbing, telling me he was going to end it all – well, I knew what that was about. I understood the mathematics of our emotions. I got it: I am supposed to hold him through the telephone and say everything is going to be okay. My synthetic emotions weaving in with his. My ability to understand his basic human desires – that worked out okay.

The next day after his suicide attempt when I talked to him on the phone, it was the same as always, the same quick quips without a hint of sadness. It made me wonder: if it felt like nothing for him to kill a man, what did it feel like for him to kill himself? Those howling sobs convinced me that there was at least some amount of pain. But was that just a charade for my amusement? Was he just feeling nothing, like any other time he killed someone, and this is just the same old shit.

And do I feel nothing, too?

Call Me Crazy

Yes: I am crazy.

I’ve heard people lob that word at me like a pejorative, and I’ll admit: it doesn’t really sting. Because it’s true. It’s been medically proven that I’m crazy. If you want to whisper behind my back and tell people I’m crazy, it won’t hurt my feelings. In fact, I delight in knowing that people still talk about me. I was beginning to feel washed up.

I do feel that I have a responsibility to elucidate what people mean when they say I’m “crazy.” Usually, when people hear that a woman is “crazy,” they expect off the rails hysteria, self destruction, violent mood swings, breaking plates, shooting up and low grade criminal behavior. While all of that is quite glamorous, I hate to disappoint and let you know that, no, I am not that kind of crazy.

I’m more of a slow boil kind of crazy. I’ve been functioning in this capitalist society for quite some time now. I’m able to pay my bills, keep my house and drive my car. I have emotions just like any other person. Sometimes they’re big and scary, but for the most part I like to chill. Yeah, I have anxiety and the occasional morbid fixation, but I get shit done.

Yes, I am crazy. But, unfortunately for all you gossip mongers out there, I am high functioning, too. This means that, yes, there is a touch of internal conflict going on beneath the surface, but I can present like a normal person and get shit done. Sure, there are cracks in the surface. I’m a flawed person. But it’s manageable.

I’m the type of crazy that participates in a constant, graceful movement. It’s interesting to see the kinds of tricks that light plays on your eyes when you constantly move. If I move fast enough, the cracks in the surface aren’t as easy to see. The bright spots on my skin glisten brighter in the light the more rapidly I move. Speed creates an illusion, even though that speed is driven by an inner anxiety to always fucking run.

Things rarely get physically violent. But something insidious is always going on. It’s hard to tell at first glance, but I think they call me crazy because I know no limits. I am different from everyone else because I know how to not stop. I am crazy because I delight in pain. I am crazy because I do not conform to other people’s ideas of who I should be. I do not waste time controlling my emotions. I do not waste time restraining my passions.

I sit with my blood lust quietly, in the dark, every day. I am crazy because of it. I wouldn’t be me without it.

I am crazy as I slink silently like a beast through the night. Even when I smile, there are sharp teeth beneath it all.

Heart Break Is A Sport And I Am Winning

Or maybe I’m losing. I can’t decide.

All I know is: I still love him.

It was very hard for me to admit that. I’d rather be able to say: I’m indifferent about him. To just shrug my shoulders and walk away. To act like I haven’t been waiting for him to text or call or show up on my door step and – well, I don’t know what he would do if he were talking to me. Because he’s not. Instead, we are at an exquisite impasse of silence and pain.

I almost want to revel in how awful this feels. I want to cherish the pain. I want to not ever forget that he made me feel this way. That I felt this way about someone else. This sensation of curdled love, like a rock in the bottom of my heart, sinking into myself and falling apart.

Because I know that eventually, my love for him will fade. He is not here to remind of why I love him. He is not here to foster my love, to make me love him more. Now that he is gone, there is nothing for me to do with this love. It is trash, and I am dragging it out, one bucketful at a time, and throwing it away.

Who will I be when my love for him is gone completely? It is easy for me to know who I am now: a woman, torn to pieces by the failures of love. It is easy for me to mourn and moan and beg for mercy and elicit pity. This is a role I know well.

I know who I am when I love him, too. I know that I am pretty when we were are together, when he holds my face and tells me he loves me, too.

But who will I be when all of this is over. I am afraid of what my life will look like when there are no more big emotions. When indifference is the demon that rules my spirit. When I am in pain, I have a reason to drink and cry. When I am in love, I have a reason to fuck and laugh. When I feel nothing – that’s when I have no reason to do anything at all. When my love for him is gone, where there be any love left at all?

I hang onto my love for him, even though it hurts to touch, because I would rather be filled with a rancid love than filled with nothing at all. I can dine on these memories for years to come. I will starve if I tell myself it’s okay that there’s nothing left.

More Thoughts on Our Sex Panic

I was ogling the outfits from the Golden Globes the other day, and I realized: ah, this is where all the confusion comes from. Look at these beautiful women in these sexy dresses, and so many of them are women who have enacted varying degrees of erotic contact on the silver screen.

In one way, it makes sense that men can’t differentiate between a woman’s sexual presence and her disdain for unwanted sexual advances. There’s an insidious fantasy about these women, especially actresses. Sex sells. And they have been selling sex for so long that men don’t understand that it’s a marketing tool, a ruse.

But this goes back to a recent cultural revelation: just because a woman is wearing a skimpy outfit, it does not mean that she’s “asking for it.” Women are allowed to be sexual on a public level, and that does not mean that men are allowed to harass them for sex.

To put it on an even more fundamental level, look at strippers. Strippers have a definitively sexual job. Sex is part of the job. (Sex work is real work.) Sex can play a part in the job for many women, but the difference here is that women have consented to working jobs which involve a degree of sexuality. You are allowed to go to a strip club, to spend money on strippers. (Also, tip her.) But you are not allowed to harass the strippers, nor are you allowed to break strip club rules (e.g. no touching). This is something called professionalism.

Women are allowed to be sexual in their jobs. They are allowed to present sexually. They are allowed to be safe in their work place. However, when a woman is doing her job, she understands the expectations of her job in exchange for money. This is not an open invitation to harass her. Workers have boundaries, too, whether they’re actresses, strippers, waitresses, copy editors, executive assistants or CEOs.

This isn’t about putting men’s sexuality in a box. This is about not splaying it all over the table for the world to see. Have some class, maybe?

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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.