Friends And Lovers Part II

Recently, some women in my life (or, as I think of them now: former friends) decided that they didn’t like the person I was fucking. This has happened more than once in my life, but just as I have changed, so has the situation. Generally, these women are unhappy with the amount of time I spend with the person I fuck, or that I fuck him in the first place.

I understand that “bros before hos” – or as we say in sex positive feminist circles: “sluts before fucks” – is a time honored mantra among the sexually affluent. Fucking is fucking, and we can’t let it compromise our core, fundamental relationships.

While I respect that sentiment, I also respectfully offer a different perspective: my friends knew damn well when they met me that I was a sex fiend. Fucking duh: I have a sex blog. I’m obsessed with sex. And sometimes I’m obsessed with the people I fuck. I mean, what do they expect – for me to live my life sticking my pussy on whatever dick comes along and not giving a fuck about the guy? That was fun while it lasted, but nowadays I’m really into falling in love with my sexual partners.

But regardless of how I feel about my partners, my friends should know: I am a sex addict. And part of being a sex addict means I’m going to choose sex over, well, everything else in my life, although I am a functioning sex addict so I can hold down a job.

So when my friends get mad that I choose my partners over them, or that I choose partners at all, it just makes me feel like: hello! Do you not even know me at all? Yeah, I choose shitty partners. Sometimes it’s because they’re consistent and the sex is good. And sometimes I choose to spend a lot of time with my shitty partners because they give me the one thing that I want most in life: sex.

Yeah, I feel it: bros before hos. But we’re all getting older here. If I haven’t fucked my friends by now, it’s probably never going to happen, and they should respect their place in the pecking order. If you stand between me and the dick I deserve, then we’re probably not friends, are we?

Actually, yeah, we’re not friends anymore. And I’m okay with that. I’m not sure why in Oakland it’s more socially acceptable to be addicted to coke and smack and Xanax and meth and choose that over your friends than it is to want sex all the time, but, hey, the world we live in today is a crazy place and I didn’t foresee myself living in a world like this in the first place, so…I’ll take the L on this one but at least I get to keep fucking.


Friends And Lovers

I am aware that as a social person, my sexual relationships are subject to analysis by uninvolved, third parties, namely your friends and my friends. That’s fine, although at times I must admit I am shocked about how messy people’s friends can be. Having been around the block often enough to know who your friends are, I have to wonder: why let your friends snitch on you on social media? Why let your friends create more drama by running their mouths at the bar? I get that your friends know what my pussy tastes like because you told them every detail. My friends know the exact angle at which your dick stands when it gets hard and the velocity of your thrust. That’s just friend shit. But letting your friends get involved in your relationship or in any way impact the outcome of your relationship in a negative manner? That’s amateur shit, and I’m pretty sure that person isn’t your friend.

I would like to extend a moment of gratitude towards my friends for not being messy. All of us have been slutty for long enough to know how to not mess things up. We don’t snitch on each other, we don’t chase each other’s boos, and we know how to collect intel on each other’s lovers by utilizing and tried and true social drag net that we have honed over the years. We know how to walk into a bar and say, “Well, both my boyfriends are here tonight. Hold me down, I think I’m gna pick up someone new tonight.” We can do that, because we have social grace and we know how to work the room so that we can fuck whoever we want without it being a problem. Unless, of course, we want a problem because sometimes we get bored and problems can be fun.

So my question to you is: do your friends hold you down? Do they help you get laid? Are they nice to your lovers in a way that is cordial but not too familiar? Your friends should never try to fuck your lover unless you have a stated prior agreement about the matter. Your friends should make you look good to your lovers. Your friends should never engage in some sort of ego fuelled fuck war for attention. You and your friends should be a seamless group of sex, and y’all better hold each other down. Because if you don’t, me and my friends will know that you’re weak, and we’ll act accordingly.

Social Media Posts That Are Or Aren’t About Me

Some people only know how to express their emotions through social media posts. This happened to me recently, specifically when someone I was sleeping with casually referred to me as a whore in an ambiguous Instagram post. I know that his post was supposed to elicit some sort of reaction from me, some sort of “I’m so offended!” or otherwise blow up, but I decided instead to unfollow him and chalk it up to poor judgment. If he wants to call me a whore, he can do it to my face and then deal with the blow back of calling a woman like me a whore in front of people we know. No one really has the courage to do that anymore, probably because I’m not a whore because I don’t fuck people for money, but also because feminist goon squads are becoming pretty trendy and also violence isn’t just limited to the realm of men anymore.

In an uncanny follow up event, someone I wasn’t dating and had never slept with tried to jump off the Bay Bridge, and when my ensuing reaction was, “This is never going to work out” (in terms of his romantic pursuit of me), I noted a post on Instagram that said something along the lines of “ride or die bitches don’t exist anymore” minutes after our conversation ended. I found this to be odd, mostly because, who knows, maybe he’s right, but also because I know he’s the type of person who would post things about me that aren’t about me on social media because he’s done it before. I guess I found this to be insulting, too, because it made me think, “Did he think that I owed it to him to ride or die when he wasn’t even my boyfriend?” Also, the subtext that I’m disloyal is completely wrong; I would just never be loyal to someone that hasn’t proven that he’s worth it.

Given that these men are posting things that are about me but that aren’t about me on social media, it makes me wonder: what the fuck? Why not just say it to my face? While, sure, it may seem like I’m the queen of posting things that are about people but aren’t about people on this blog, the main difference is that this blog is a creative pursuit and social media is just a breeding grown for pettiness and drama. It could be said that the things they have posted aren’t about me, just because it makes me look crazy to assume that certain posts from people with whom I have romantic entanglements are about me, but also the point that I’m supposed to do or say something crazy in response. Or I could just not take the bait and let it slide, which I do for the most part, except, of course, for this post. But the point of this post isn’t to throw a temper tantrum but just to point out: people do crazy things for attention and in an attempt to make you do or say things that make you look crazy on the Internet. But guess what! I’m already crazy on the Internet, in a manicured, well thought out manner, and here it is: I’m writing this blog, not giving a fuck about you, but letting the rest of the world know exactly what’s up. I saw that on social media you needed attention, so here ya go! This is me paying attention to you in a forum that I built by myself in a way where you cannot respond, so I hope you like it. Yes, I saw your post, yes, I knew it was about me, and, yes, I am still an independent woman who makes her own sexual decisions and is loyal to the people to whom I choose to be loyal because I have agency in America in 2016. So, go ahead and say whatever you want about whores and the dearth of ride or die bitches. Even if it’s not about me, you still look like an asshole for posting vaguely misogynistic content on the Internet. Have fun with that.

Seeking Companionship On A Journey Away From Here

He is sitting there, telling me about all his professional accomplishments while sipping his $15 drink, and I am sitting here, waiting for anyone to come and take me away from this place. Not just him, but everything in general. I am going to be putting out an ad on Craigslist fairly shortly seeking a partner who wants to escape reality. I need a partner with whom to run away from all this droll, mundane reality. I would like to sneak out in the middle of the night and never have to pay the bills again. I would like to stop worrying for a minute and unshackle myself from all these urban anxieties, and I would like someone there to kiss me when I’m done.

But not him. He’s sitting there, and here we are, talking about his work, yet again. He doesn’t want to run away with me. He isn’t seeking sunsets to ride off into like I am. I want happily ever after at the end of every day, and he wants the stock market to go up and for a raise and a promotion. He likes it here in this shark tank. He’s thriving. He’s telling himself that he’s happy, but I’m telling myself that I’m doing just fine in circumstances that aren’t ideal because I can still make the best of a shitty situation. He’s the one who built a world like this. I’m the one who’s quietly tearing it to pieces. My cell phone bill is a fucking joke, and there’s nothing dreamy about showing up to the doctor’s office to wait for two hours and pay with my Medi-Cal card just because I need one prescription filled. He makes a living off of all that.

I’m probably not going to call him back, mostly because I am looking for someone who will hold my hand and look me in the eyes and ask me if I want to eat ice cream or look at the clouds or lie in bed and do oral sex all day. Answer: I want to lie in bed and do oral sex all day, and after that eat ice cream. I’d rather sit and laugh with someone who might not be here tomorrow than suffer through a relationship with a man who fills the car with gas and buys the right toilet paper and fills my bank account with money I don’t really want. I don’t want to bicker about energy bills and why is the bathroom messy. I can figure that out on my own. But I can’t make me laugh like he makes me laugh, which is why I need him around. Because being an adult is its own burden, but feeling young again and like none of this really matters except us seems much more ideal.

Relearning to Love

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

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

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

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

In The War Of Waiting

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

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

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

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

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

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

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He’s Cumming

“Oh my god, I’m cumming!”

He whips out his dick and I look over in glee as, dick in hand, there it goes, squirting out, and now there’s come everywhere. I was kinda hoping he would cum inside me, but I think he’s dealt with too many pregnancies and abortions to fall for that one ever again, although, hey, I’m on the best birth control on the world. Maybe I should tell him. But now isn’t the time for that, as we’re lying there naked and both covered in cum and sweat. The sheets on my bed are slightly slipping off. The pillows are strewn across the floor. It’s like a stunned silence, this moment of afterglow. The sun breaking in from behind the curtains. Both of us lying there, too fucked to move, although I tell him there’s a towel over there, although should I stand up and hand it to him? I don’t feel like standing up. Not after all that fucking. Not after he made me cum like that and the delight of his dick inside me still has me reeling and nailed to the bed.

I don’t know if I should look at him or if I’m supposed to look away. I feel like a greedy child as my eyes graze over his thighs and his cock and the hair on his chest. I’m too afraid to look into his eyes and see what’s in there, so I lean for a little bit and kisses on neck. God, I love to watch him cum. I love to look at him right after he’s done cumming. I like the noises he makes, the things he says. I like feeling his body between my legs as slightly he loses it and succumbs to the sensation of cumming. And cumming. Sometimes I almost want to laugh when he cums, because there’s something inherently funny about cumming. The noises and the motions of cumming – it’s not very serious, but I know if I laugh it might be perceived as ridicule. But, really, I laugh because I’m enjoying every moment of everything that is happening, and I’m thrilled by his dick as he squirts out cum. The beautiful cum. I made him cum. I love making him cum.

God, I would do anything to make him cum. I would make him cum all day, every day, if only he gave me the chance. I would bend over backward just to make him cum, and sometimes I do. I would crawl through dirt with half the produce section rammed up my ass if it would only make him cum. I want him to be cumming forever, here, with me, or at least fucking as furiously as we possibly can. I find a slice of my self worth in his orgasms (and also mine), and I would do anything to make him cum because I know he would do anything to make me cum, too. But enough about me, because isn’t this blog about how much I like to cum all the time? And what about him, the one who makes me cum? The one who makes me cum like crazy whenever I want? I wish that there were some way I could repay him for all the orgasms he has given me, so kindly and so patiently. I know that I will never be able to make him cum as much as he makes me cum, and I guess that is okay, because there are so many men before him (and after, too) who didn’t care nearly as much about my orgasm as he did. It was not nearly as much fun to make those men cum. It is not fun to watch a man cum, after all the work, especially if you know that your own orgasm will never be arriving any time soon. But him? He makes me cum all the time, and all I want is to do the same for him. I want to lie here forever, naked and heaving, covered in his cum and satisfied by knowing that I’m his baby and I make him cum the best out of all the rest of them, ever. If only dreams come true. One day…

When Does Sex End?

Does sex end when the guy cums? Or when the girl taps out? When do we stop fucking? I can never tell, personally, because no matter how much my body might be hurting or shutting down or dried up and desiccated, there’s something in my mind that screams, “Keep going!” Perhaps because I know that this moment will end eventually, but isn’t this everything that I have been working towards all week? Haven’t I wanted, above all other things, to be close to someone else? In the most carnal way possible. We need to keep fucking right now as an act of desperation in order to transcend our skin and our bones, and maybe if we fuck long enough and hard enough, one day we will wake up and we will no longer be separate, but we will have finally become two people in one body. Connected. Not forever, but for as long as it’s pleasant, and cumming is not symbolic of the end of everything that I am trying to achieve here. Cumming is something that I can do over and over again. I go to the gym and work out every day so that when the moment comes for me to take off my clothes and dive in, I will be awake and ready and able to fuck for as long as we need. Until we can fuck no longer. Until I can’t keep my eyes open. Until it is impossible to do this anymore. When my body is wreck and your dick is falling off. Until I can’t possibly cum one more time. Sex ends in a moment of failure, realizing that we are separate now, and we will always be separate, so we might as well sleep it off before we get up and drift apart tomorrow morning (or afternoon). Because sex doesn’t end after one person’s one orgasm, or even if he can’t get it up, or if I’m tired. Sex ends when I no longer want to be close to you, or I can no longer be close to you. Although, if I had my way, sex would never end, and we would be here forever, cycling in and out of fucking and sleeping and eating while the rest of the world melts away. I would like that. Wouldn’t you like that? To fuck me forever? I’ll call it true love, but all you have to do is call me back and come over tomorrow night. It will be wonderful. Forever.

The Fuck Feast Sexual Literacy Test

And, speaking of call backs and sexual literacy tests, here’s a list of things that I expect a man to ace on the first hook up:

  • Mastery of Attraction So, this is everything that happens before we get into the bedroom. A mastery of attraction means that you have a rudimentary understanding of the female ego, interpersonal communication and lust. A little bit of flattery, well responded to text messages, and flirtation. This is also the mastery of being attractive, so, y’know, take a shower and put on some nice shoes, okay?
  • Ability to get it up This is crucial. Look, if you can’t get it up, that’s fine. You overindulged. Or you’re nervous. Or you’re just no that into this. That’s fine. However, if you can’t get it up, why did you wheedle your way into my bedroom? Why are my clothes off if you can’t perform? I understand that we all can’t be perfect all the time, but being able to get an erection is crucial to fucking, and if you can’t do that, then you’re just not ready for this, honey, and you’re wasting my time. It’s back to the friend zone for you. Unless, of course, you make up for it with copious amounts of oral sex. That’s cool.
  • Oral Sex To be specific, cunnilingus. This is so day one. If you don’t eat pussy, then get the fuck away from me. If you don’t eat pussy, I can’t imagine what else it is that you won’t do. Eating pussy is the most basic move in the book, and if you don’t have this mastered, then who are you and what are you doing with your life?

Read more →

A Woman’s Experience of Lust Part II

There are snakes in my eyes as I slither between these sheets to wind up the leg of some new beast, slurping up sins and sensation like a newborn Eve on her first night fucking Adam. And what does it feel like to eat meat, red, raw and dripping while white blankets carry the new stains of another night in heaven. I would like to know what it feels like to be good, but I am too busy being bad to ever stop and pause and consider any other alternative option. I just let my fingers do the talking, whispering sweet nothings to the buttons at the top of your pants, singing sweet songs to your zipper as I zip and unzip and pull down and around. We both know what kind of secrets are hidden therein, all those beautiful inches upon inches of – well, inches of you. Read more →

A Woman’s Experience of Lust

Lust, which is just how I like it. But this is my lust, not yours. This is my deep, red sin, not yours. This is my experience of lust, my singular experience. I cannot vouch for your experience of lust, but I am offering you mine in the hopes that it can illuminate and accentuate your own experience of lust. To make it better. So that we can all experience lust on an elevated level, fine tuned and tingling in the night. This is my experience of lust, gnawing raw through the night, while yours might be elsewhere, sipping tea in the sunshine on a vast, grassy field. My lust is a beast, but yours…well, what is yours? Is your lust a rabbit, soft and petting, or a shark, filled with teeth? Is your lust a car that goes fast and crashes through the median? Or an explosion in a coal mine, killing everything around it? Is it blistering and bright? Yellow and pretty? Or does it skulk around, alone through rooms, looking ugly and yelling loudly?

This is my experience of lust. This is my experience of that chafing, fast emotion. It is a dangerous situation that I wade through wantonly, and you are welcome, dear spectator, to watch me stumble down. But you? Well, I expect you to experience lust in your own way, and if you would like to laugh at me while you do, please be my guest. But if anything, make sure that you experience your lust as beautifully as possible, because I certainly am.