Back In Oakland

I’m back in these streets, and for some reason everything feels like ashes beneath my feet.

It felt easier to be someone else in a different city, someone new, someone without a name, without a face, without a story, without a reputation. I could be anyone I wanted as soon as I opened my mouth. I chose to be myself. And that was the right decision because for some reason when I’m far away from here, being me is no crime.

But I am back here, and I am still me, and for some reason while I’m confined to this city it feels like being me is an affront to everyone here. Like I am the disease they are hoping will leave, but I also know that when I was gone nothing here got better.

Perhaps we are all the disease.

I am still not leaving, no matter how much you want me to, because this is my home even when it’s on fire. This is my home even as everyone stands arm in arm, calling me the enemy. This is my home, but far away felt good in a way that home hasn’t felt in a long, long time. Running away from home felt like a beautiful solution. Being back here is a burden.

They have stopped writing New York Times articles about why this is the coolest new place to live in America. Some other wretched city with wailing natives is under that crux now. Us? We are washed up and we no longer even want ourselves. I wonder who we will be when this feeling passes, because I will still be here, gnashing my teeth and waiting for God. Who will I be after what this city has done to me.

STOP LEAVING OAKLAND

I’m looking at you, my fellow locals. And only you. Although, just to be clear, when I say “locals” I mean my peers, my friends, the other people of color who were born in the Bay Area, and raised in the Bay Area, who have family here, and connections, and a history, and a home.

Please don’t leave me. I can’t take it anymore. You are breaking my heart when you leave, because you are abandoning me here, and I feel so fucking lonely now.

Look, I know it’s hard here. I know there are a million reasons to leave. So many of our friends died in that fire, and now the city doesn’t feel the same anymore. There are no fun underground parties. It’s getting really expensive to live here, but we still can’t find jobs that will help us keep our homes. We’re being boxed in by interlopers who look at us like Oakland savages that should be kept in a cage so they can ogle us whenever it’s convenient for them. The homelessness is out of control, although it’s not that homelessness in and of itself is a bad thing, but it seems to be symbolic of the internalized stress of the housing crisis in Oakland. It’s the class divide on our doorsteps. The police force is falling apart, which (if you’re an anarchist like me) isn’t necessarily the worst thing on the list but it is emblematic of the chaos and mismanagement that seems to be engulfing this city.

I know why you’re leaving. Over the past five years, this town has gotten worse and worse and worse. They have taken the things we loved about this city and replaced it with wan, benign pseudo-culture. The changes that happen rarely seem to benefit us or welcome us. This place doesn’t feel like home anymore.

So we ask ourselves: how did we let this happen? How did we fail each other? And for many people, the only way they know how to answer those questions is to leave.

I am not leaving.

Which is why I wish you wouldn’t leave either. I have decided to stay here, even through the bad times. Even though I barely like being here because I don’t recognize this city as my home anymore. I feel like an outsider in the city where I was born. I have decided that I am going to stick this out. I am going to fight for something better. I think that this can become home, again. I think that there is something I can do or say to make at least some of this better. So we can stop feeling like we are constantly at odds with each other. So that we can support each other and find solace here again. So that this city looks like us again, and not them. This is our city. We deserve it. And if it’s in shambles, we should fix it.

I know. This is hard. In fact, for some of us it’s impossible. That’s what gentrification has done to us: some of us have to leave. Some of us are necessarily displaced and don’t have a choice. I am lucky enough to have a choice. I choose Oakland.

I don’t care if this fight kills me. It probably will. I already feel weary from being here. Which is why I want to say: I need you. Please don’t leave me. I can’t do this without you.

You Can’t Turn A Fuck Boy Into A Boyfriend Part II

“I though you were cheating on me!”

I’m on the phone with a former boo, and we’re talking about a break up we had a few months back. I keep quiet for a moment because I’m not exactly sure what to say about this information, three months after the fact. As I’m trying to unpack it, I realize: he thought I was cheating on him, so he broke up with me, and started sleeping with other people.

I’m unclear as to what good this information does for me three months later. It doesn’t really make sense why he didn’t ask me straight up three months ago if I had fucked someone else. He just assumed, and then he used that as grounds to break up.

What I hear in his declaration is not that he’s a strong man who deserves the love of a woman, but, rather, that he’s so insecure about the thought of me sleeping with someone else that he would rather dump me in order to even the score and sleep with other people, too. A break up is easier than looking me in the eye and talking to me about my alleged infidelities. What if the answer to his question is, yes, I had been sleeping with other people? What would the heart break feel like then? What if the answer to his question is, no, I hadn’t? Would it be even worse for me to realize that he cared too much about me and what I do with my body? For me to realize I had power over him and his emotions?

I understand that math: we have to level out the amount of pain here so that both people can feel it. That’s why he broke up with me without ever asking me about what I was doing. He felt so hurt before he even knew the truth that he had to hurt me in return as badly as he could, regardless of whether or not I had actually cheated.

“I thought you had cheated, too,” I replied, referring to the incident when I went through his phone and saw his lovey dovey text messages with his other girlfriend.

Of course, that’s the difference between me and him: I back up my hunches with cold, hard facts. Sure, it wasn’t the most confident move I could have taken in the relationship, but I did it. After I had found the text messages, I woke him up and said, “I found your text messages with your other girlfriend, and I think we need to talk about having an open relationship.”

Again, yet another example of the differences between me and him: I collected the evidence, and then I realized, hey, maybe we can still make this work out. In fact, I would have liked to have things work out. Apparently, however, my suggestion that we open our relationship was all the evidence he needed in order to determine that I was cheating. So it never came to fruition.

At the end of the day, he still vehemently denies ever having cheated on me. But it’s a moot point now – it doesn’t matter if he had fucked half of Oakland before crawling into my bed at night and telling me he loved me or if he had been with only me the entire time. After that, the trust was gone, and the relationship was too damaged to repair. But I’m not one to let trust issues get in the way of a bit of make up sex, so in the end I truly did overcome.

Museum of Sex

I’m finding that my sexual attitudes are changing. I’m growing older, and I’m changing, too, so naturally my attitudes towards, well, everything likewise change.

Sex and love always have been (and probably always will be) prime motivating factors in my life. I think that this is natural, and, in fact, that’s what drives the human species to be dominant on this planet. However, as a young woman, the fact that sex and love (and not just love) are central to my life has been pathologized. I am sick because I crave sex and love in a society that puts work and family first.

Modern feminism has opened up the option for women to enter the workforce. This is something that has benefited me personally as I have the liberty with which to support myself, and my sexual and romantic decisions are not motivated by a need to survive, or the need to have a man financially support me so I can eat and have somewhere to live and wear nice clothes. Unfortunately, the flip side of that philosophy is that an emphasis on the importance of sex and/or love in a young woman’s life is in some ways frowned upon. We, as women, have decided that we are going to professionally and financially dominate this world. Getting distracted by something like sex is weakness.

I resent that. I’m coming out of the phase in my life where I would use men as sex objects for my own satisfaction. That was fun while it lasted, but it was also dangerous, and it was also not very emotionally fulfilling. But I have grown emotionally, too, and I used men as sex objects because I wasn’t sure how to handle my own emotions by myself, let alone with someone else in the picture.

The reason that I bring all this up – and the reason this post is titled ‘The Museum of Sex’ – is because I went to the Museum of Sex in Manhattan yesterday. It was very interesting. I got to see videos of animals masturbating which made me feel weird. But more importantly I saw their exhibit called ‘Hard Core’ which looked at pornography throughout the ages in America and Europe from the 16th century onwards.

What struck me in this exhibit was the statement under an illustration that said the artist used writing about sex as “an act of subversion.” Talking about sex was a way to talk about all the things that were taboo in society. Throughout the exhibit, there was this common theme that sex workers were the only people who both knew the true nature of man and were also willing to talk about it.

As a female writer who is trying to find the true nature of man, let me tell you: this is no longer an act of subversion. This is no longer intended to be the document of some girl doing bad things. This is an act of assimilation. This is an act of no longer wanting to be pushed to the margins because of what I say or do. I know that people think I am pigeon holing myself to writing about one topic because of this blog. I can write about anything I want – and I have, and I have been paid and I have been published for it.

Although – no. I know I can say that this isn’t an act of subversion, and I can feel brave while saying that. But we all know that no matter how much I want what I say to set a new cultural norm for our society, it’s not. In fact, if anything, the things I believe and say and do are being even further marginalized by society because of the current regime in power.

And it’s not that I don’t want to be subversive. I have been subversive this whole time. It’s that I’m scared to be subversive, and I’m scared of what that will do to me and my friends. I’m fucking afraid. None of us want to have targets on our backs. But we do. Which is why we are learning to run in the night and duck from the fire.

I guess what I want is for this to not feel like an act of subversion. I don’t want to feel like I’m being pathologized. I don’t want other people to tell me I’m distracted. I don’t want to feel like a feckless rebel pinned to the wall of a museum, ogled by others like a freak among freaks. I want to soar. But I am not soaring.

Book Of Love

“If you go home with someone and they don’t have books, don’t fuck them.” – John Waters

I’ve seen this quote in many a meme circulating on the Internet, and I have to admit that it bothers me on many levels.

To start with, it’s an oversimplification. This quote is the kind of thing that I’m sure many fuckbois have misconstrued as a reason to pick up weird looking books at the thrift store. Just because someone owns books doesn’t mean they’ve read them. It’s worth making sure that those books are real and not just stage props, in both a real and metaphorical sense.

I had a roommate who stacked his shelves full of obscure French philosophy and vintage books on Mesoamerican studies and relevant, trendy fiction. Occasionally I would see him lounging around with a book, but, in all honesty, I don’t think he ever touched most of the books he bought. But they were there, hoarded in piles all over the house. He did fuck several graduate students from Cal, so I guess it worked.

As someone who is obviously literate enough to run an entire blog and get published in the local paper, I must admit that equating someone’s literacy to their fuckability is just…icky. It touches on the even ickier subject of sapiosexuals, or people who fetishize other’s intelligence as a sexual trait. Personally, I find sapiosexuals to be elitist bull shitters. In many ways it’s condescending and classist to equate someone’s sexual worth to their literary intelligence. The public school system doesn’t really afford poor people and people of color an adequate education, and sapiosexuality in turn shames people for not having access to adequate education.

Speaking of adequate education, there are eight types of intelligence and academia and the modern school system tend to only reward two of those eight types of intelligence: verbal-linguistic and logical-mathematical. In fact, our entire society rewards those two types of intelligence higher than any other type, as is revealed through average salaries.

The other six types of intelligence that are routinely ignored and undervalued are: musical-rhythmic and harmonic, visual-spatial, bodily-kinesthetic, interpersonal, intrapersonal, and naturalistic.

In many ways, the above quote reinforces a capitalist approach to intelligence and by extension relationships. If someone doesn’t have books, he probably isn’t very smart, and if that person isn’t smart, then they have no sexual value to me. Because if you read the above quote, it’s not even referring to relationships – it’s referring to fucking someone, probably for a one night stand.

I don’t know about you, but when I’m having a one night stand, my #1 priority is good sex. I don’t understand how someone’s literacy is any indicator of their ability to eat pussy.

In fact, from my personal experience, I find that people who are caught in the trappings of being successful according to capitalist standards spend too much time valuing themselves by their intelligence or their income and tend to focus less on their emotional intelligence, both interpersonal and intrapersonal. School and career tend to distract from social pursuits, and less socially experienced people tend to be less sexually experienced, and less sexually experienced people bore me.

I’d rather hook up with someone who has good taste in music. If you can make me laugh and make me cum, I don’t really care about whether or not you even know how to read. I’m here to fuck, not to start a book club or engage in political discourse.

You can take your books and burn them for all I care. I don’t think there’s any point in fetishizing a book as an object that indicates someone’s personality, intelligence or sexual prowess. Look me in the eyes and tell me you love me while you make me cum. That’s all I need.

 

Battle Plans

People talk about saving Oakland, but there’s no Oakland left to be saved. This city has changed into something we no longer recognize, and to try to force it to be the city we remember and cherish is a self defeating task. Oakland is not the city it was ten years ago. But, then again, we are not the same people we were ten years ago, either.

Which begs the question: if we have changed, shouldn’t we expect that Oakland has changed, too? Sure, we are still the same people we always were, even if we are wearier and more worldly for all the experiences we have had over all that time. There is something at the heart of this city that we do not recognize, which is what makes it so frightening.

We are in the midst of change. In our personal lives, in our civil lives, in our public lives. We are past the point where we can resist the inevitable. We have to accept this change.

Don’t get me wrong – I don’t really like the city that Oakland is becoming. There is something sour and disingenuous about it. The heart of Oakland, that louche ethos – for some reason I can no longer grasp it.

I am trying to find a way to change with this city. I am trying to find a way to accept was has happened to me, and to my friends, and to our families, and to this city. I am trying to understand the strangers and the strangeness in the city and my place in it.

I do not belong in this city. But if this city had remained the same while I had changed, then I wouldn’t belong here either. I am insisting on finding a way to belong here, because – well, if not here, then where?

I have to make this work. And I can’t expect this city to revert back to the magic I felt here for most of my life. It’s gone, and the longer I spend trying to search for something that can never be attained again, the greater the fall of disappointment.

So I am sitting here. And I am facing my city. Not as I want it to be, but as it is. Filled with people I do not know, governed by laws that give me no love, crumbling in certain corners and in many ways not nearly as beautiful as it used to be, back then.

I am going to survive here. I am going to thrive here. This is my battle. Against the odds, and I will not give up and go away quietly. I will not stop writing, and I will not stop showing up at the fancy new places with me and all my friends, and I will not stop fighting.

This city can change as much as it wants to, but it still has to deal with an incendiary like me. I am still in this city, and I am still burning, and I will consume as much of this city as I possibly can before I am extinguished by whatever monster has the power to put me out of my misery.

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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.