Sexual Exploration in the Modern Era

Well, here we are, fellow members of society. The truth has come to light: men have been doing fucked up things to us for a long time. Although, if you wanted to know about this it was information that has always been readily available. It’s just making national headlines now.



What dismays me the most is knowing that our society is not a place where our sexual attitudes are conducive to communication, sexual growth and sexual exploration. If anything, recent accusations create an anxiety around sexual exploration, but mostly because we are at a point where we aren’t talking about prevention, we are only talking about punishment. I’m not one for fear entering the sexual equation (unless, y’know, that’s what we’re doing and that’s what we’re into), but I will admit that sexual fear in both men and women is not conducive to good sex. Unfortunately, we’re at a point where we can’t even talk about good sex because there is so much bad, nonconsensual,violating, rapey sex going on.

As usual, I blame men for sucking all the fun out of sex. It’s very annoying – all they have to do is talk to their partners, get consent, and know how to handle rejection with grace. All of those things are not inherently unsexy. They are, in fact, factors that make the sexual experience all around more gratifying.

But what I’ve been seeing from men (on social media mostly) is an ongoing commitment to the fuck boy lifestyle and/or an obvious misunderstanding of the entire situation which manifests as good intentions but presents as cringey ignorance. I wonder if this generation of men is too far gone – perhaps we can’t teach these old dogs new tricks. Which is why I hope that the next generation of men will be presented with better discourse and options when it comes to sexuality.

Con Artist Finds Soul After Losing It Four Years Ago

I sit in my bathrobe and my matching underwear at 8am, smiling like everything’s fine, drinking coffee, right before work. It’s the normal thing to do, me at my kitchen table in my apartment where things aren’t pristine but they’re clean enough to belie the presence of an adult in the household. That adult is me. Briskly glimpsing at this morning’s news before whisking off to put on lipstick and modest yet fashionable close toed, three inch heels and a dress that shows neither too much cleavage nor too much ass, but that, at the very least, makes me feel more attractive than your standard 9-5er. Then I hop in my car and go about my day, and when work is over, I buy groceries and call my boyfriend and eat a salad and do the dishes. Big kid shit.

This is life.

I’m not sure when my life got sideswiped by normalcy and infected by everything I never used to be about. I drink moderate amounts nowadays, three drinks max before I go home and turn in. I tell my boyfriend I love him, and I mean it, and I don’t grin like a Cheshire cat and trot off to text other boys with bigger dicks in the bathroom when he’s not looking. Instead, I sit close to him and let him hold his hand, and I look him in the eye when I have things to say. He has met my parents. I have met his.

Perhaps I should have known way back then that the nonstop violence wouldn’t be good to me. I smile at my boyfriend as the thought crash lands in the back of my brain, a hot flash of who I used to be. I have a moment of doubt as I harken back two years, to me, zapped on blow and laid out on some dark couch with some heaving junkie’s tongue in my ear halfway across town. Yeah, that used to be me.

I tell myself that’s not me, anymore. I have this nice job. I have this nice life. And this is who I am now, and this is who I have always been. I hit delete on all those backlogged files of vice and indulgence. That person is gone. Those memories will be gone, soon, too.

I try not to think about the person I used to be because I don’t want to think about what happened. I don’t want to think about why I changed. I don’t want that vision of violence to disrupt this nice dinner that I prepared for me and my boyfriend while we watch some artistically indifferent TV show churned out for us by Netflix. I don’t want to be back there, to feel the flutter of panic in the cage of my chest. I don’t want to think about how I’ve changed. Why I had to change.

Turns out a gun in the face was all it took for me to abandon my wild ideals of fornication and immoral fuckery. I try not think about him as I’m curled up with my boyfriend on our almost nice couch in my almost nice apartment. I try not to think about the desperation and the fear that put my flat on my ass, and then all the work, oh all the work, that it took for me to be sitting here, with my nicely manicured nails, and my Louis Vuitton bag, and my newly opened investment account where I invest my monthly bonus from work.

Really, I’m one of the lucky ones. I escaped alive, or alive enough to assimilate back into society in the blink of an eye. I guess my face wasn’t too fucked up for me to get a good enough job, but my body certainly is. Luckily I don’t have to bare my body at job interviews anymore. That’s not what they want. Not for this job. So I go to work, and I pretend everything is okay.

Pretending is fine because I’ve gotten good at it, but the reason my heart flutters when I think about who I used to be isn’t because I regret who I was. I regret the people that I had to leave behind. I regret sitting here with my boyfriend and remembering the other people who used to sit here when I used to be someone else. I regret the dreams that we built together, that we had planned on living out. I regret that my new dream did not include them. I regret having to watch them fall by the wayside, into the gutter, swept away with the soot and the gray rain of bad days. I wonder where they are, but just for a moment, because if I think about them for too long I might launch myself into an Internet goose chase that leads me into a rabbit hole of friends I have lost and what are they doing now.

We are no longer friends for a reasons – our lives have diverged. But I have emerged (relatively) scott free, and they – well, I do not follow them down the Internet rabbit hole because I do not want to know if they have or haven’t gone to rehab yet, because either answer is grim.

But it’s about more than the former friends, isn’t it? Because any chase down the rabbit hole would wind up with him, with me sitting here, with me on his page, with me wondering what he’s doing, with me hoping he’s okay. I can’t fall down the rabbit hole of my former life because I’ll wind up stuck on him again, and when I’m stuck I usually do the same thing I always do: I text him. I can’t text him.

For some reason texting him is the only trigger I need to fall back into my old ways. One text of, “Hey, how are you?” and two weeks later he’s back in my bed, and I’m back to the old me, but the old me won’t work in the new context of my life. I can’t chase him through my dreams and into reality, because this reality can’t withstand his presence anymore. I have to live here without him. Or not live at all.

He ruins me, not because he is wanton, but because that is what he does best. I cannot let him ruin me again. I cannot let him remind me that he loves me, because his love is a trap into which I gleefully leap every time. His love is a drug, and I would jump down from the heavens to die if only I could get high one more time.

I don’t. I won’t. I cannot. I sit back in my sofa, and I eat my salad with my doting boyfriend, and I leave those thoughts and those memories for another day. I am no longer that person. I no longer do those things. Jesus saves, and so does violence, and I run away from these memories as fast as I can before I get stuck there again, in the muck of the life I used to live, drowning in the person I used to be.

This is who I am now. This is who I will always be. The girl I used to be is a myth and a lie, a failed experiment, an undetonated bomb. I sneak away from her whenever I can, but in moments of darkness I glance back over my shoulder at her – she is beautiful, in her own way, but so am I. So I look ahead. I can only look ahead.


Love Letter from the Trenches of the Culture War and Across Enemy Lines

I came into this world knowing that I existed so other people could hurt me. I am here so other can people can do to me what they want. So that they can inflict pain on me and derive pleasure from it.

This is what it means to be a woman.

I am here so that I can be subjected to other people’s sadistic whimsies. As a woman, this is my role in society. This is what is expected of me: that I will cower, that I will shrink away. They show me pictures of what it means to be a woman, shrouded and stuffed into a room in a house where no one can look at me, or out in the world, raped and mutilated by the male gaze. I have been told every day that this is why I am here. So that I can serve you, even when it hurts. So you can make me suffer, and so you can enjoy making me suffer to your own ends of satisfaction.

I hear this. I hear it every day. They tell me my body doesn’t belong to me – it is a vessel of everyone else’s pleasure, no matter what form that pleasure takes. I must supplicate myself before men so that the world can go on for everyone else. Except me.

But I am not in the mood to supplicate myself. I never have been. I never will be.

I am not in the mood to hand over my body and my autonomy in the name of the greater good. There is no greater good if there is no goodness left for me. Fuck the greater good – if I suffer, you suffer with me. If I have to die here, I will take you all down, too.

The knife at my throat is a dare to win the fight. I am naked and bleeding and tied up in the basement of society, but I have found the loose knots and I am eyeing the door. I will make it out of here alive. With all my teeth intact. I am smart enough to survive you and all your goons, the cronies of capitalism and hierarchy and white male supremacy. This is a zero sum war, and you decided how you wanted to die the day you said it was okay to treat me and all of us like this. You have gave me the gift of the taste of blood the first time you spilled mine, and I am living to know what yours tastes like.

I have a feeling you can’t fight when you’re tied up on the floor. We will see if my intuition is right.


Sex in 2017

Part of me is bummed that these sweeping allegations didn’t come out three years ago. Or five years ago. Back when I was really invested in talking about people in the local scene who had committed similar, atrocious acts, and back before I was fully integrated into a lifestyle that isn’t compatible with the amount of time and energy it takes to orchestrate these kinds of accusations and take downs.

Having been involved in (or at least witness to) several guerrilla Internet take downs, it’s both impressive and comforting to see this mindset rise up to the levels of Hollywood bigwigs. Locally, we have always had out networks, and it’s heartwarming to think that these networks of women have formed up to the highest level in order to insulate ourselves from attack and danger.

While 2017 has certainly been a disturbing year, part of me hopes that these new revelations surrounding the toxic culture of masculinity in industries across the board is a sign that things are changing. As meninist, incel, alt-right platforms continue to push against the mainstream, I’d like to think that their voices are just the death rattle of something that has, for a long time, been utterly passe: the patriarchal, capitalist, white system in which we live.

We are in the moment of the hard fight right now. It only makes sense that they wouldn’t back down without a fight, and neither will we. This is a bloody battle, and the iconography of that culture is wearing thin; movie producers, comedians, star celebrities, even into the inner reachings of our political system – we see that the power heads of that system are starting to fail. They are being humiliated in the town square (by their own actions) and stripped of their power by the people. We may even see the destruction of the concept of “American presidency” within our lifetime. But who knows. One step at a time.

One thing’s for sure: this fight is fucking brutal, and it is changing us. Focusing on the battle has prepared us for war, and the idea of beauty is falling to the wayside. To be an artist in this era is to express anger, to rue convention, to find comfort in the strange. But I remember what things used to be like, when I was young and unaware. I will not let this evil make me ugly. There is beauty in this fight, and splendor in victory.

What Happens To Everyone Else When They’re Not Someone I Care About?

I came home the other night, and my roommate was hanging out with a guy that I had one night stand with seven years ago. It was weird.

Mostly it was weird because I’ve entered a phase where I lightweight act like none of that shit ever happened, and I’m just a respectable girl doing respectable things, and I’m nice, and people like me. It’s a ruse, but it feels like it’s working, so I’m just going to roll with it.

A trip down memory lane was not what the doctor ordered, but it wasn’t the worst thing in the world. He was nice, and we had a nice conversation as I loitered in my kitchen in my pjs and no make up. It was fine, because, no, I wasn’t trying to impress, although, yes, I am a bit squeamish about people seeing me in my “inside clothes.” But that’s okay. That guy’s seen me naked before, so there was no point in pretending he hadn’t. Also he was there for my roommate, and as a passing blip on their evening’s radar, it’s not really my place to waft through the kitchen in lingerie especially when it’s cold as fuck.

So I sat in my room and examined my memory of fucking him, which was murky at best and drenched in alcohol, as usual. It was lackluster but not worthy of a scathing review. I have a feeling that perhaps I was the one who had been kind of shitty, but in lieu of my newfound self image as a “respectable girl,” I’m going to keep those details to myself so that my dignity can remain intact until at least the end of this post.

What was most harrowing about having a former one night stand in my kitchen seven years later was the realization that: he still exists. And look at him, hanging out with my roommate – he’s still trying to get it! Seven years later.

It was a strange realization for me, mostly because I assumed that after I was done with a man he ceased to exist. I thought they evanesced into the ether, phantom dicks on which I used to ride but that would never pester me with the need to be acknowledged or surprise me with the fact that they’re still people with emotions. Weird.

I kinda figured that after I fucked someone, their existence was relegated to social media and fleeting glimpses at random parties. It’s hard for me to fathom that if I don’t care about someone anymore that someone else might care about them. Or want them. Or want to fuck them. If I can’t see them anymore, are they even real?

I know, I know. This sounds kind of sadistic, doesn’t it? And selfish. But I must admit, I didn’t always think like this. Men taught me that I didn’t exist if he didn’t want me. I have felt worthless enough to know that treating people like they’re worthless is an effective way to maintain the emotional distance that is necessary in order to maintain this kind of lifestyle.

I’m not really sure how these people feel about me, but, frankly, I don’t care. I’m a respectable girl, now, and I don’t do those kinds of things anymore.

The Last Person Who Hung Up On Me

A friend of mine called me on the phone the other day, and I picked up because it had been a while. The conversation, at first, was going well, and then, suddenly, he touched on a subject I knew was going to come up eventually because I’m pretty active on the Internet so I knew the tea.

He started talking about trans women playing sports. He had an interesting perspective on sportsmanship, but, at the end of the conversation, I realized: I don’t really care. The conversation was pointless. As I sat there, growing tired of his transphobic rant (that he swore up and down was not transphobic), I realized that this conversation was probably pretty meaningless, and I’m not interested in meaningless conversations. We could be talking about anything, about something interesting, about our lives, but instead, here we are, bickering about a topic over which neither of us have any power and that doesn’t impact us in any way.

Really, what’s the point in talking about trans women in sports. As a cis woman, I don’t play sports and therefore will never have to face this issue head on. He, as a cis man, will never know what it’s like to be a cis woman playing a sport with a trans woman. Sure, we can muse of the situation, but neither of us have any connections, impact or influence over this topic in the real world. Neither one of us is ever going to right legislation or set league rules or coach a team. We’re just going to sit here, have this conversation, bicker a bit, and then move on.

It was a very disappointing conversation. All I got out of it was a lack of respect for him at the end, which was actually pretty upsetting because all he had to do was not talk about something that didn’t effect him. I tried to explain to him that his opinion was pointless. He didn’t take it very well.

But that’s fine. All I want to do is support my trans friends and get on with it. Him? I guess he ostracized all his trans friends last week and I’m the last person who will pick up the phone to let him rant about this topic. Shame on me. I should know better. I’m only picking up booty calls from here on out.

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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.