Power Sluts in Power Suits

Over the years, I’ve gotten a lot of guff for having a sex blog. People don’t like that I sleep (slept) around, and people are offended that I write about it. Boy, do I have news for you!

Running a sex blog was a great way to hone a skill set that is proving to be very useful in today’s capitalist economy. I have recently started a new career, and – let me tell you! The ability to maintain and grow multiple relationships simultaneously and the ability to keep detailed notes on those relationships are both serving me quite well in my newfound line of work. So: in your face!

Let’s delve even further into the benefits of this skill set. As a young woman, I was sexually voracious and curious, and with that came the desire to know everyone and see everything. In the professional world, the desire to move beyond the known and into uncharted territory is highly prized. Likewise, my ability to field multiple lovers at once while simultaneously being able to handle rejection gracefully is also coming in handy. I understand how consent in relationships work, and I understand the art of seduction. This means that I’m not pressuring people into doing (or buying) something they don’t really want, and I know how to read people and cater to their inner desires. This is a great thing to know in the business world.

Which makes me wonder: why don’t sluts rule the world? Femmes, especially, with their penchant for altruism and generous nature, are well equipped to foster meaningful relationships not just in a familial or sexual sense, but also in a business sense. The ability to juggle multiple emotional scenarios, to please multiple people at once, to communicate desires and build relationships based on trust – the power to balance all of that is incredibly valuable.

Additionally, the ability to be able to track and measure all those relationships, the ability to monitor and evaluate them, the ability to give structured, written feedback on relationships – those abilities, too, add to one’s value in the business world.

Oh, I get it. This is why the world is afraid of us. This is why the world tells us that we’re bad for being sluts and we can’t enter the workforce. Because we’ll just take that shit over immediately.

Well, joke’s on you. We are taking it over.

Youth Nostalgia

I pine for something that no longer exists. I am sitting in a city that is decaying into something that other people say is more beautiful. It is definitely newer, but I’m not sure if pretty is how I would describe it. This city has been scrubbed of its charisma. The charm has washed down the sidewalk and into the gutter, only to drift away to some distant city that right now is too rough around the edges and too far away from here for anyone’s palate.

I wonder how much longer I can stay here before I have to leave. I walk down these streets that are hazy with memories that can never repeat. I can never relive those moments. I can never revisit those taco shops and bars. The people in these memories are gone or dead. The moment as I knew it is gone. The moment I loved will never come back.

Sometimes it is sunny in my dreams. The person I used to be looks good in that light. Me, today? I am slinking into a new existence. This is not a time for dreaming. This is my time for doing. There is nothing romantic about a reality over which I have complete control but no power. It was beautiful when hope hadn’t been precluded by poorly executed bad decisions. I have built this monster of a moment in which I am living. This is my beast, and mine alone.

I was supposed to live in a castle on the beach with the wind in my hair. Instead I am here, where it is stale and dark between the neon lights. The trash in the corner is mounting like anxiety, and there are no more doors out. I am here until I am nowhere, and before I am nowhere I will have to make do with right now.

Revenge Free Fantasy

It’s been a year since I went to the hospital. I guess I’ve changed a lot since then. When people talk about me these days, they use words like “graceful” and “sophisticated.” I guess I’m just more reserved when it comes to the wild fuck girl bull shit, which is fine.

Since everything that happened a year ago, my main gripes have been with the people who I thought were my friends who wound up abandoning me. I don’t really talk about “the incident” too much because, well, it’s very personal. I don’t want to talk about my trauma too publicly because, well – it’s more than personal. It’s fucking embarrassing. I’m embarrassed that I lost control like that, so publicly and so wildly.

But there’s another reason why I don’t talk about “the incident.” The fact of the matter is, I don’t want to talk about the other person who was in the room when it happened. I have successfully and completely deleted this person from my life, and it’s for the better. I don’t want to talk about “the incident” because I don’t want to talk about him. Talking about “the incident” means his name will come up, and as soon as I say his name, he becomes real again. He becomes less a specter of disgust and repulsion and more a real human being in which I was emotionally invested. Talking about “the incident” gives my character misjudgment flesh. My mistake has a face and a name again.

I hate that my trauma is inextricably attached to him. I am so proud of myself for growing in the last year. I am disappointed that such deep trauma was the impetus for my growth. I resent that he had any role in it, negative or positive. I rue the fact that I am trapped in that memory with him. There is no erasing him from that moment. I can erase him from the moments before that and all the ones after. But he is there, every time I close my eyes and flash back to that dark room. There he is, holding a gun. There he is, with a name and a face. He’s real.

If I had the power, he would be faceless and nameless. But that’s not a practical desire. When I read about other women who put names and faces on their abusers, I wonder: what can we really do? We can’t erase these people from society. There is no death sentence for sexual assault, not even in a vigilante sense. There is no jail time for hurting someone else, not even in the real world. We have to cope with the fact that the people who took our happiness from us are still unfettered and unhindered, living there lives, out there somewhere. It doesn’t feel fair.

If there’s one thing I want out of life, it’s to know that the people who have made me suffer are suffering at least ten times as much as they made me suffer. This is something that brings me joy and happiness in life. And if there’s one thing I want out of life, it’s joy and happiness.

I do not think I will get that satisfaction in this lifetime. Even though I know it takes a miserable person to inflict pain on someone else, that is not enough. I need more than that.

When it comes to certain things in life, I have revenge fantasies. When it comes to other things in life, I have revenge realities. But when it comes to this, I feel nothing. I do not lie awake at night, dreaming about hunting him down and dismembering his face. I do not think of what would happen if I called his mother (yes, I have her phone number) and told her what her son did to me. Instead, I am cold. And I think that is the best.

Instead, I have decided to live my best life. Not out of revenge or spite, but out of self love. If there was one thing this person wanted to take from me, it was my dignity. My self respect. My confidence. My survival instinct that takes me way beyond survival and down the path of success. He wanted to see me broken, but, instead, I am whole. (I feel this way about most people and institutions I encounter in life.)

I hope to never see this person ever again in my life. But, if I do, I would like to look at him down my nose and into a gutter, where I can see him writhing in pain. Me? I don’t look away, I just look good.

True Stories: Teenager on Bus and Foot in Richmond and Oakland, Early 2000’s

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about my teenage experiences with men. It’s something that’s been on the news a lot lately, and I can’t help but flash back to lil ol me at the tender age of sixteen, seventeen. Being young and alone and female in public is a harrowing experience. It sets you up for all kinds of interactions that you’re not necessarily prepared for. I wasn’t prepared for the experiences I had as a teenage woman in public.

Here’s a list of experiences I had with men in public when I was a teenager:

  • I used to run cross country at my high school, which was in Richmond on the border of San Pablo. Being on cross country meant running through the neighborhood, which wasn’t too savory. We got to run in one direction every day because every other direction was too risky. One day, I was running with two other boys on the team, and some men in the group rolled down their window and yelled, “Nice ass!” I remember blushing and feeling flustered as I jogged through the streets of Richmond, but my teammate yelled back, “Thank you! I do have a nice ass!” That was the first time I felt like a man stood up for me when I didn’t know what to do. It wasn’t a feeling I would ever become familiar with.
  • I used to run in my neighborhood, too. One time, I was running through my very nice neighborhood in Albany, California, when a man pulled over and tried to talk to me just outside of my mom’s house. I looked over, puzzled and surprised. He drove off immediately. But I knew what he wanted.
  • It was 2004, and the bus stop on San Pablo Avenue was two blocks away from my high school. San Pablo Avenue in Richmond in the early 2000’s is probably not too different what it is today. People would honk at me as I made my walk, and one time a car pulled over. The driver was, as I now know, a pimp. He asked me if I liked to party, told me he sold coke and speed. He asked for my number. Granted, as a 17 year old trying to catch the bus, I was a bit out of my league here. He offered me a ride, I refused. He tried to get me in his car, I said no. He hassled me, creeping alongside me in his car as I continued walking to the bus. He asked me for my phone number. I wound up giving him my best friend’s number (I’ll admit, I was mildly interested in coke), and he left me alone. She became very upset with me when he started calling her every day nonstop.
  • I was in high school, and I liked to walk around my neighborhood with a book. One time, a man stopped me to talk to me. I didn’t really want to talk to him – I wanted to read. But he insisted on talking to me, and he kept on talking, and I couldn’t shake him even though I was clearly not interested. He wound up telling me that he had just gotten out of rehab for being addicted to speed. He wasn’t much older than me. He was irate throughout our conversation but wouldn’t let me go. I panicked, and I knew not to go back to my house because I didn’t want him to know where I lived. I wound up walking to the Catholic Church where my family went on Sundays. It was a Saturday, but the doors were open. There was a wedding inside. I went at sat in the back, and he asked me, “Do you know these people?” I said, “No.” He got upset and left. I called my mom and her pick me up. I was really fucking afraid, and telling this story again still causes me anxiety.
  • I was 18 and I lived in a warehouse in Ghost Town by the truck stops. I was walking out of the neighborhood to my boyfriend’s house in Temescal because I was broke and it was Sunday, so the bus wasn’t coming any time soon. I walked by one of the parks in the projects, and a man perhaps eight or ten years older than me started to follow me. He hollered at me, and despite the fact that I didn’t stop he still started walking alongside me. We wound up talking about art and poetry, and he also told me that he had just gotten out of jail and had a crack habit. We made it halfway up Telegraph Avenue. At one point, he bummed a roach from a friend that he ran into at the bus stop. I tried to leave him at the bus stop. Eventually, I told him that I was going to my boyfriend’s house, and he left me alone. When I showed up at my boyfriend’s house, I was a mess and frantic and my boyfriend didn’t know what to do.
  • When I was 19, I used to take the bus from the Lower Bottoms to Downtown Berkeley for work, transferring from the 12 to the 40. Sometimes I would stop in at the Grocery Outlet to get a box of soup for lunch. I’m not sure how I met this person originally, but there was some guy who worked across the street who recognized me in there one day. He followed me around Grocery Outlet, telling me that we could go into the bathroom for a quicky. I remember telling him that a quicky probably wouldn’t be very satisfying for me, so, no, pass. I don’t think he understood what that meant. This happened a couple times.
  • Again when I was 19, I was sitting at a bus stop on University waiting for the 51 to take me to work. A man in a car pulled over. At first he asked me for directions, and when I approached the car to tell him where he was going, his dick was out and he was masturbating. I screamed, he drove off. When I showed up to work, I was shook, but I still had to work.
  • “You got a boyfriend?” was a pretty popular cat calling line when I walked around Oakland as a teenager. At first, I said, “No, I got a girlfriend, though,” because I thought that being a lesbian was an obvious put off for straight men. I learned the first time I used that line that my assumption was wrong. Eventually, I realized that saying, “Yeah, I got twelve boyfriends!” was the best response – the men were not expecting that. Sometimes they would say, “Oh, you want another?” To which I would respond, “No, twelve is too many already!” I don’t get cat called very much anymore.

Rainy Day Baptismal

These streets are sleek with asphalt and slick tread of rain boots stomping from here to there. Me? I am steeping in the rainwater, drowning in puddles, choking back on the brine of wet as it washes me clean. I am seeking salvation between the rain drops, hoping that when I peel back the weather like thick curtains, something better or something brighter will be waiting for me there.

There are Bible verses written on these gusts of wind. The rain washes away the sweat of demons that has been lingering on these walls since last summer.

I will be clean again when the sun comes back. I will be okay again if I can get through this. I will hunker down and shiver while I wait for the storm to pass, but so long as I have you, I have something worth waiting for. I would rather freeze to death on this gray corner and know that you love me than be warm and without anyone in some state of disgrace. When I see you next, I will be soggy like the gutter from whence I came, but if you still love me even after all of this, then what does it matter.

I scrub my soul clean of rain clouds and bad days, and you are the sunshine on a beautiful day.

Learning to Listen to Consent

With all the recent sexual allegations going on, a recent problem in American sexual culture has come to light: the word “no” is meaningless.

This is something we all probably already knew. PUA websites tout the adage that a woman doesn’t really mean “no” until she says it three times. Let me tell you – this is such exhausting nonsense. Do you know how frustrating it is to have to tell someone no three times before they believe that you actually know that you mean it? It’s like going to a bar and ordering a gin and tonic three times before they realize that you don’t actually want the Long Island Iced Tea you’re being served.

This myth is perpetuated because men think women are too stupid to understand what they want and how to express it. In PUA circles, men believe that women need to be pressured into the sexual act. Coerced. Seduced. This thought process belies the idea that women are adverse to sex, disinterested in it, or don’t think about on a critical level or in a way that allows them to understand and express their sexual desires and dislikes.

If you’ve been reading this blog for at least a little bit of time, you know damn well this is not true. A woman’s mind is not a stationary monolith, and over time women can change and grow in their opinions and desires, too. The PUA thinking around “she has to say no three times to mean it” is a gross oversimplification of the idea that women change their minds. However, in the PUA context, women only change their minds when pressured by a man. This is not true. Women’s ideas and attitudes to sex are allowed to grow or change over time of their own volition and through their own autonomy. A woman may be disinterested in sex one day and obsessed with it the next.

But the nuance of a woman’s mind isn’t what I want to discuss here. Instead, I want to examine the toxicity of pressure and coercion in sexual relationships. A man can use pressure and coercion to attain consent from a woman in a sexual situation – this is know. He can ply her with alcohol and set the mood in order to get that “yes.” But what’s strange to me is the fact that men don’t condone doing something ordinary and effective such as having mature conversations about sexual desires and consent. In fact, because male courtship is so geared to coercing a yes out of a woman, when her no sticks, it becomes a disaster of rejection.

As a woman who has had conversations about sexual desires with men, let me tell you – it is shocking how little men are able to express their sexual desires outright, even after having set up this nuanced dance of seduction. It is a strange revelation, certainly, but mostly because: why are men taught how to seduce and coerce women into sex before being taught how to sexually express themselves both physically and verbally? Why are men taught how to play this intricate game of sex before they are taught how to win or how to lose that game?

We are setting men up for failure. We are not teaching them to communicate in the most simple manner possible: through plain, old verbal communication. Men don’t know how to hear the word “no” and walk away. Men don’t know that hearing “no” isn’t an assessment of the failures of their personalities or who they are as both a person and as a sexual being. Men can’t smile and walk away. Men don’t even seem to understand that it’s more beneficial for them to accept “no” the first time a someone says it. Perhaps men don’t know that women give in after saying “no” three times because they’re fucking afraid and they start to feel powerless and it’s easier to give in than to start a physical fight that they are sure to lose.

Sex is better when both parties consent, both in the moment and afterwards. Sex is a deep form of physical communication, and to start the sexual experience off by ignoring a someone’s “no” is to compromise that communication. It also compromises the ability to communicate during the sexual experience, which should be an opportunity to maximize physical pleasure. It compromises the ability to communicate after sex, the ability to say what was good or what was bad. The inability to communicate sexually induces anxiety. It is a set up for failure.

Ignoring someone when they say no the first time is a great way to lose someone’s respect. It’s also fucking annoying and childish, and no one wants to fuck an annoying child.

I would appreciate it if people respected me the first time I say no – in every aspect of my life.

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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.