What Evil Lurks In The Hearts Of Women

I’ve been sitting here with a smile on my face, thinking about you. I was thinking about how beautiful you would look if you were drowning. And me, with my eyes staring directly into yours. You would be pretty, wouldn’t you, as you screamed for help. Me? I would smile and walk away.

I take that thought and I tuck it into the back of my brain as I get up and go about my day. My hair looks nice and my nails are trim. This outfit is becoming on me, and I am becoming a monster as let small plots unravel in my mind about you. And your demise.

I am going to rule this city one day. I know it, and you know it, too. It’s an unstoppable truth. And when I am sitting on my throne in the middle of city hall, these thoughts will no longer be thoughts. They will be decrees.

The evil in my heart will be incarnate. And we will call it feminism.

Break Up Blues

I’m nearing the end of the break up process. I’m at the point where I’m surprised that I’m not thinking about him every day, and that feels good. So, naturally, I decided that it was time to call him to talk about the fact that I’m pretty much getting over him. It’s been three weeks.

He picked up when I called, and I made my usual demands for emotional validation in the form of asking for emotional denigration regarding a few choice issues in our relationship. I was ready to have him chastise me, because, hey, a little bit of masochism goes a long way in moments like these. He, being an adult, knew the game as soon as I started playing it and told me to simply, “Let it go.”

I cried because I wanted to feel something, and then I hung up. The immediate emotions I felt were limited to just frustration, which was frustrating, which in turn lead to a compounded sense of frustration. I didn’t want to feel frustrated. I wanted to feel empty. Or alone. Or hopeful. Or pain. Or regret. Or sorrow. Or loss.

Instead, I didn’t feel any of those emotions. Like a junkie wanting to get high off the emotional roller coaster of trauma, I realized that perhaps it was time to get off. The ride wasn’t giving me the same rush. I had gotten used to the twists and turns and sudden drops. Those emotions had become rote. Their relevance had dissipated into my own indifference. In some ways, I was free.

But maybe I don’t want to be free. As I sat there, soggy eyed, with my phone in hand, I realized: I wanted another fight. I wasn’t tired yet. I was hoping for some grand declaration, some emotional revelation. I wanted an answer. (Even though I was parading around, asking for closure. What a ruse.) I wanted him to say something big. And it didn’t matter if he told me he never wanted to talk to me again or that he couldn’t live without me. I wanted…a reaction.

He had defeated me. As I sat there, stewing, I knew I had lost. That emotional upheaval was the sickness for everything that cured me. It made me feel alive, in the thick of it again. Instead – the story is over. There will be no plot twist on next week’s episode. There will be no next week’s episode. There will only be me, starting over, on my own.

I’d rather be in pain with him than on my own, feeling nothing. Will someone please save me from the ennui of myself?

Which Wave of Feminism Is This?

A few months ago, I was working as a bartender but looking for more work on the supply side of the business. I was taking interviews with several companies, and one day when I was at work, I was discussing what kind of pay is normal for those types of positions. The owner of the business was there, and he overheard my conversation with my colleague.

“Don’t we pay you enough here?” he asked me, as I stood in front of a group of about ten coworkers.

“No. I want a raise,” I said in so many words.

“You earn one of the highest minimum wages in the country, and you earn tips.”

“Yeah, but you’re only paying me minimum wage. I earn the tips on top of that.”

“No, I earn those tips for you,” the owner told me. “If I hadn’t built this restaurant, you wouldn’t be making tips. That’s part of the money you make. And that’s enough.”

I rolled my eyes and walked away because, well, that’s what I do. That guy tends to steam roll people in conversations, and I wasn’t in the mood for it. Instead, I was in the mood to kick it with my boo who was waiting for me outside. I checked my phone, clocked out for my break, and skipped out the front door.

This, of course, was not good enough for the owner. As I walked down the street to go meet my boo for 30 minutes of you-know-what, the owner chased me out of the restaurant.

“Pilar!” he called. I, like a fool, turned around, even though my boo was just a few feet away. “Why did you run out like that?”

“I’m on my break.”

“Look, I’m running a restaurant here, and we’re operating on razor thin margins. I don’t make any money off these restaurants. We can’t afford to give you a raise,” the owner said. Basically all these really dumb excuses that I don’t really care about. I had done the math. I worked there four days a week, and a raise of $1 an hour would cost the restaurant less than $2,000 a year. Or $128 a month. Chump change in the grand scheme of things, and also an amount of money that would not have greatly increased my standard of living or perhaps even my income (after taxes). The reason I wanted a raise was because I wanted the restaurant to show me that after two and a half years of service they appreciated me and wanted to retain me on the staff. I wanted a reward. I wanted a pat on the back. But not just a pat on the back – this was, mind you, my livelihood. I worked there for money, so I wanted that reward in money. Clearly they wouldn’t budge.

I stood there for fifteen minutes lightly bickering with my boss but also sending desperate looks to my boo who was standing a few feet away and pretending to check his phone because he didn’t want to get into it, either. Eventually, my boss returned to the restaurant, at which point I was so wound up that the remaining fifteen minutes of break were neither pleasant nor ample enough time for me to catch up with my boo.

“What was that guy’s problem?” my boo asked.

“That was my boss,” I said.

“Oh, what? He was complaining to you that he didn’t make enough money? If he wanted to make money, why did he open a restaurant? No one opens restaurants to make money. If you want to make money, go into investment banking,” my boo weighed in.

“Yeah, you’re right,” I said into his shoulder as he hugged me tight.

This is not going to work I thought as he held me there. Originally, I had wanted to use those thirty minutes to drag my boo into one of the many allies or dark corners of parking lots that I had strategically mapped out so that I could get a couple minutes of dicked down while on my break. It occurred to me that my boss had just totally cock blocked me on my mission to get laid during my 30 minute break. I sighed and realized I had to give up the dream. Why is it that unattractive men with a meager amount of power always seem to interrupt my sex fantasies with their bullshit? Can’t a girl fuck and let fuck?

The Burden of Nostalgia

I think this blog used to be a lot more fun when I was young and carefree and fucked my way through all my problems. But I’m older now, and life is different, and that’s a valid narrative, too. It’s strange to use this blog as a lens through which I can see myself as detached and dysphoric but also subtly changing and maturing through the years. It’s strange to know that my readers can see it, too, if anyone has stuck around for the past almost six years now. Sure, there are people whom I have known for that entire time, but the writing – that’s a different kind of reveal.

Part of me wishes that I could be young and frustrated forever, that I could always hang onto the feeling of the promise of the world laid bare in front of me. But that got tired after a while, and there’s nothing quite like regret to taint one’s perception of one’s own accomplishments (or lack thereof). Decisions are exciting before you make them. Once you’ve decided, they feel a lot more lackluster.

I cope with my problems in much healthier ways now. Sometimes I take my anti-anxiety medication, sometimes I go to therapy. Rarely do I hole up in some dive bar and get black out drunk and fuck the first person who doesn’t seem to mind the trouble. I’ll admit that I’m a bit sad that the stories I have to tell these days are so palpably less glamorous. But, at 30, what does glamour and excitement look like?

Success at my age – and even success in an iconoclastic manner – is, by necessity, more quiet than success at a younger age. Being successful in your 30’s is almost antithetical to what success looks like in your 20’s. Success in your 30’s means that you’ve risen above the fray of what success in your 20’s looks like: fucking antics. If you’re doing it right in your 30’s, you don’t have to submit yourself to the all night party grind that made being in your 20’s fun.

Maybe I’m washed up, but maybe I’m just more about my money these days. I’ve had enough cocaine and dick til 5 am to last me a life time. Now I get to do shit like drink real champagne at 6 pm and tell the people I care about that I love them. It’s strange to know that my tastes and my pleasures have changed.

The mania was unsustainable anyways. I look at the people who joined me for the ride through my 20’s – the friends who scored blow in downtown bathrooms with me, the boys that I fucked in bushes, the people who judged me and told me to get my shit together. Now that I’m in a completely different place in my life, I look at some of those people and see where our paths diverged.

 

What’s hardest about changing is knowing that not everyone changes with you. Some people get stuck, others shoot off into the ether. All I know is: I started in the same place with so many people, and years later none of us are even close to being on the same page. We were all fundamentally different, but for a moment in time we were all together.  It’s hard to leave people in the dust. It’s hard to be left in the dust.

I will always be me, but time is a fucking bitch. The world around me changes rapidly, and I have no choice but to adapt or fester. I choose to adapt. I will always love myself, but as time goes on, I love the world around me less and less.

Craigslist Missed Connections #TBT

When I was younger, and before I started this blog, I was fascinated with the Craigslist Missed Connections. I used to post there at least once a week when I was 23. Nothing specific, mostly just musings, and the point wasn’t to hook up with random strangers. It was mostly just to serve as a creative outlet where I could talk into the ether about my sex life and receive incoming emails from likewise stranded, horny anons on the Internet. It was actually pretty fun.

I was cleaning out my email when I stumbled upon one (and only one!) link to an original post that I wrote seven years ago. I was a disenfranchised 23 year old at the time, and most of the emails in my inbox from that time are CLMCs and also so many fucking job applications. It’s almost strange to see that incarnation of myself from seven years ago – lonely, broke, desperate for a job and dick. Things are slightly different now. But not by much.

A little bit of context on this post: it was a response to a post called “Mission Girls” that gravely disparaged women in the Mission. Also this was in 2011 when the Mission was entirely different from what it is today. Geez, what a world of difference seven years makes on both a personal and metropolitan-infrastructural level. The boys I’m bashing in this post barely even exist anymore.

So, without further ado, your daily dose of nostalgia:

5/15/11

 mission boys – w4m (mission district)

i have lived here for a year now and come to the solemn conclusion that all of you are vapid, carbon-copy replicants of each other. i would try dating someone who lives in my neighborhood, but you all either:

1. are obsessed with feigned nostalgia for a decade you didn’t live through (i’m looking at you neon 80s and neo-grunge rockers).

2. have no concept of taste — ‘taste’, for you, is something you merely inherit through reading blogs and trends, not the ability to discern quality. this is, i think, the most parsimonious explanation of how thee oh sees, an overwhelmingly mediocre band, ever got popular. or girls.

3. blindly fetishize everything “street.” i think this is in perfectly ironic parallel with poor people… who love bourgeoisie things like money, iPhones, cocaine, etc.

4. can only achieve sexual pleasure through degrading other people. look, i’m happy if you want to call me a slut, pull my hair and slap me in the face while fucking SOMETIMES. i’d like a self-respecting, less violent fuck periodically. (this is why you have more one night stands than relationships and why you only end up in relationships with bitches, in case you were wondering.)

5. love the smiths, the misfits and will try to get me to listen to “Blonde on Blonde”, like 20 other boys i’ve met with the same shitty taste in music as you…

6. move to this city and then hate on everything about it because you utterly lack social skills, the ability to value people on a personal level and act like you’re better than the people you’ve voluntarily chosen to live among. Get a personality or GTFOH. doesn’t really seem like you’re contributing to society. whatsoever. is it because your mother told you you were special and you were the idiot who believed her? or because she didn’t tell you you were special & now you’re overcompensating?

you’re like the homogenized counter-culture alternative to bros… except, you know, they have yuppy corporate marketing jobs and probably finished college, instead of aimlessly drifting through their 20’s without any prospect of a career or acquiring any tangible skills beyond skateboarding, shitty graffiti and making itunes playlists.

amiright?

A Metaphor for Ecstasy

This is an announcement. I am no longer a snake in the grass. I am the flames engulfing your fucking house. I have come here, in the dead of night, with violence on my mind. I knew you were sleeping, and all the meanwhile I was creeping through your front door, down your hallway, into the bedroom where you feel peaceful at night, snaking up the leg of your bed, wrapping my hand around your throat. I am choking you. To death. With purpose.

The whole city is watching. The neighbors are awake. They are standing in the front yard. The news is here. Your family knows. You’re making headlines while we are watching you dying.

Me? I’m standing outside your house with a smile on my face, drinking this delicious glass of tea.

You? You’re going down.

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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.