Mad at Today

Shit is hard right now. I wish I had anything else to write about right now, but I don’t. This isn’t a very erotic epoch in Oakland. Have you seen the recent call outs?

All I can do for now is sit with this pain and learn to live with it. Find a way to function. Hold onto my voice with nails sunk in until my fingers break off. This blog is a fucking whimper compared to what it used to be. But I can’t sit here and pretend like everything’s okay. I can’t pretend that I’m happy with the way Oakland is now. It’s gotten worse here progressively since I started this blog five and a half years ago. Part of me is afraid that maybe I’m getting old and bitter, but I also know I could have gotten old and comfortable. I am not comfortable. In any sense of the word. I wish part of this could be funny or silly. I just don’t feel that way anymore.

It’s fucking frustrating.

Love & Loathing: Emotional Fluency as the Strength that Kills You

Howard Gardner proposed that there are eight types of intelligence. Two of those intelligences – mathematical/logical and linguistic/verbal – are the types of intelligence that you need in order to get good grades in school and make money in a capitalist society. The six other types of intelligences – interpersonal, intrapersonal, physical/kinesthetic, natural, musical, visual/spatial – will get you good grades in P.E. and art class.

The two types of intelligences that have pretty much no bearing on your grades (other than an ability to convince other people to do all the work in group projects) are interpersonal and intrapersonal intelligence – namely, your internal emotional intelligence and your external social intelligence. Which is probably why so many people lack emotional intelligence – there’s no tangible reward for being able to express your emotions or being able to navigate complex group emotions.

Emotional intelligence is an intelligence just like anything else you can learn. There’s a basic set of emotional precepts that are common throughout humanity. There’s the language of emotion. There’s the expression of emotion. Emotional intelligence requires a fluency in the language and an ability to dance through the expressions. Emotions can be expressed and worked through like an art, both internally and in a social setting. Emotions are something that can be practiced and perfected. Some people have a knack for emotional intelligence. Others (like yours truly) had to learn it the hard way.

Often times conversations around emotional intelligence are coopted by emotional anomalies – people talk about sociopaths and clingy exes and anger management problems. Those are easy things to talk about. What people don’t tend to talk about is everything in the middle ground. People don’t talk about emotionally healthy expressions (probably because it’s not very glamorous and is never the basis for good TV). People don’t talk about emotional growth over years, decades, a lifetime. People don’t talk about emotional lessons – they tend to talk about emotional pitfalls like broken hearts, rejection, humiliation. They never talk about resiliency, perseverance and emotional endurance in the face of hardship.

As an emotionally fluent person, I’ve come to realize that I have an upper hand on most people in most emotional situations. I can easily work through feelings of rejection. I can use wrath when necessary to get what I want. I know how to love people and how to tailor that love to different people. I can take my anxiety and hold it and understand it and make it go away. I know how my sadness works, how long it will take, how much of it I need before I can feel okay again.

When you’re surrounded by people who are constantly overwhelmed with or embarrassed by or afraid of or confused by their own emotions, being emotionally fluent is…well, it’s threatening. People who lack emotional fluency see someone who is (what we commonly call) “mature” and have no idea how that person became mature or what it takes to be mature in an emotional sense. Probably because there’s no guidebook written that tells you about healthy ways to experience your emotions. In fact, if you want help with understanding your emotions from a professional, you wind up going to therapy, which is expensive, and which usually starts with a prescription for an antidepressant that makes you gain weight and stymies your sex drive. In our fast food, instant app gratification world, there is still no better solution for emotional growth than paying a therapist $200 a week for a one hour session to talk about your emotions.

Even as an emotionally fluent person, trying to explore emotional fluency with my peers is a daunting task. Emotions are just so…frightening, and they can tip into darkness at any given moment. As someone with a wildly vast depth of emotion, learning how to navigate those dark waters was and still is at times harrowing. Learning that lesson was difficult, and the person who took me there was just as frightening to be around. But I did it.

What’s strange is that emotional fluency isn’t valued at all in our society. Often times, people admire an emotional paralysis of sorts. To survive in a capitalist society, to wield power, one has to be inured to the pain of emotion. One cannot fall into emotion when making money. Greed is good. Sympathy is not. Stoic is the emotional of choice in a world of exploitation for survival. Sociopaths are the people with the best paychecks.

It’s also worth noting that emotional fluency isn’t necessarily all peaches and cream. When talking about emotional fluency, we tend to admire the positive emotions in people: the ability to love, kindness, forgiveness, tenderness. Emotional fluency certainly includes an ability to possess and enact those emotions, but emotional fluency (like all other aspects of human nature) has a dark side, too. As an emotionally fluent person, I am well versed in the emotions of hatred, revenge, bitterness, manipulation and scamming 101. I can shirk guilt. I can enjoy other people’s pain. That’s emotional fluency, too.

People tend to forget that. Which is why emotional fluency isn’t valued in our society – emotional fluency is only valued in good people. I’m a woman with demons and the knowledge of how to use them. Nobody likes that. Everybody likes me when I’m in a good mood, when I’m generous, when I’m funny, when I’m helpful, when I’m tender. I am the same person in my moments of darkness, when I inflict pain, when I insult, when I jeer. Both sides come from the same person, and I wield them with the same amount of emotional intelligence. However, my emotional intelligence is only valuable when it’s being used for other people’s benefit. When people no longer from my emotional intelligence or if they are scorned by it – then I am a bad person.

This is the catch 22 of emotional intelligence: it works both ways. Which is why we cannot value it as a society. Which is why it is easier to value emotionlessness and emotional ignorance. For some reason it is better to be hurt by someone who does not know what they’re doing than to be hurt by someone who does know what they’re doing. I disagree with that, but that’s just me. Emotional intelligence is about understanding the impact and the consequences of your emotions, and sometimes I understand the impact and the consequences of my wrath, and I am angry anyways. It is something that no one else can control – but I can control it. I am angry with purpose – not a wildly flailing bundle of ire that moves without cause or reason. For some reason I am more frightening than someone who doesn’t know what anger means or how to use it for ultimate gain.

This paradox is something that I have come to understand in my relationships. At first, I was confused: how can my friends vilify me or be angry at me for being the same person that they loved and adored just moments ago? Why are they mad at me for embodying the same very human emotions that they possess, too? Where is the forgiveness for my wanton wrecklesness? Why is there no mercy for my moment of darkness? I tried to understand them and stand by them when they were consumed by anger. When it happens to me, why am I shunned?

I came to understand what was happening. When I reached the outer limits of my joy, that was something they were comfortable with and wanted to be around. When I fell into darkness, it was something that they couldn’t understand and therefore ran away from. Even though I was there for them when times got tough, they didn’t know how to be there for me through the rough patches because they had no inkling of how that darkness worked, how bad it would get, or if I would ever bounce back. My display of darkness was terrifying for them – as I succumbed even further, they did not know how much pain they would have to shoulder, how bad it would be. They didn’t have the tools to dive into the darkness with me and know that they would be okay. They didn’t know how to resurface. They didn’t know how to ask for more air. They didn’t know how to save me if I drowned, or, worse, if I would save them if they started to drown.

So they left.

After years of good times, they left me in the darkness alone. After years of bad times, too. After years, when I held their hands while they cried in hospital beds after suicide attempts. After they sat in their kitchen with a bottle at noon and told me how bad things were, and I sat there and listened and tried to help. After their boyfriends beat them and I showed up at their house and took all his money and gave it to them. After they were accused of rape. After death. After near death experiences. After the party got shot up. After all our friends died in the fire. After being broke and jobless for months on end. After being hungry. I was there. I was not phased.

This isn’t to say that I am infallible. I make my mistakes with gusto and expect my friends to stick by my side because that’s how loyalty works. I have been careening through mutually abusive relationships for years. I thought that we were in this darkness together. But now I am here alone. I am not afraid – but I am sad. It was a lot more fun to do bad things when we were here together. Being bad is a lot less thrilling when there’s no one there to enjoy the spoils of sin.

I wonder if it’s just that they couldn’t take the constant darkness to which I have submitted myself. I’m comfortable here, but living in darkness for years on end – it’s not easy. I don’t blame anyone for not wanting to survive this. For wanting to get out. For running away. Some people have to come up for air eventually. I do that from time to time. I’m not sure if it’s weakness or strength that makes me want to leave, but I do. But I always find myself back here, in the darkness. I am comfortable here. I can navigate this. I can experience love in the shadows of society. I can be noble when no one is looking. This is fine for me.

I forgive them. I know they are not asking for forgiveness, but they have it if they want it. Of course, they will not be plunging into the darkness any time soon to pick up the forgiveness that I have waiting for them down here. I know they do not want to see me because they do not want to have to stop and look at me if I am in another depressive state, or if I am thinking about suicide, or if I am shacked up with some lover who is sucking my soul out my body, or if I am underemployed, or drinking too much, or on some weird drug, or on the verge of collapse, or going through a break up, or in need of some friendly company, or looking for someone who will come with me into dark bars late at night to do bad things. They wouldn’t dare see me, just on the off chance that things aren’t great for me right now. They can’t risk having to care about someone who needs a lot of love.

That’s fine, but things are fine. I’m not dancing through some moment of crisis right now. I’m wading through a calm period. Part of emotional intelligence includes knowing when to take a step back. So I’ve stepped back. And I think of all the people I used to be friends with. My god, every friendship was an emotional roller coaster from start to finish. I like emotional roller coasters. But I guess they didn’t. I wonder if they are coasting along with out any of the moral catastrophes that we used to plunge into head first. I wonder if they are happier now.

Me? Well, I realize that part of my emotional fluency includes the ability to admit defeat, to be vulnerable, to weather rejection, to take a hit but still keep going. So that’s what I’m doing: I am admitting to my sadness, I am holding my regrets, and I am moving on. I am mourning for an appropriate amount of time and then letting the future come at me. I am understanding myself now better than before. I am a dark person with dark impulses. I cannot expect the universal love that I would like to have. That’s okay.

I’m still in love with love. I probably always will be. The love that has gone is not the love that defines me. It’s the love that I have now that matters the most.

Fight For Your Rights

It really bothers me when people with power act like their hands are tied. I’m looking at you, huddled masses. Get your shit together and revolt already.

I’m also looking at people with a small amount of power who don’t have quite as much power as they want to have and therefore consider themselves powerless or voiceless. For the most part these people are called “liberals.” They count themselves among the powerless because they can feel more powerful among the powerless, but also they are unburdened of any responsibility of power if they tell themselves and others that they are powerless. It’s a catch 22 – they sink down low among people who are truly voiceless just so that they can be loudest person there. But when it comes time to act, they point to their position among the powerless as an excuse for inaction.

It’s infuriating. It’s especially infuriating because the democratic voice of social media seems to have eluded so many people. It’s as though people are so unsure of their position in society or the impact of social media that they’re willing to waffle their way through political conflict while still taking up way too much space. Legitimate political dialogue is eclipsed by intellectual indecision that is paraded through comment feeds like a celebration of grandiose indecision.

But this is not the time to weigh all options. This isn’t the time for asking questions. This isn’t the time to pick a political party and then switch back. We passed all that a long time ago. This is the time for action. This is the time to fight for what you believe in. This is the time for believing. So believe in it.

With believing, you have power. When you find that you are ready to fight for something you believe in, power finds a way. This works in both directions, for both parties. We can see that with the imminent threat of nazis and white supremacists. I mean, fuck, man…there are people out there who believe so vociferously in a failed political regime and eugenic social ideology that they have made it onto the front page of my social feed every day for the last six months. Granted, they have the inherent advantage of white supremacy, but if the radical cause got even a fraction of that media time – we’d be winning.

Which is to say that if you started believing in something and joined the fight, there is real progress to be made. You might not know it now, but you have power. Your voice has power. Use it – before they take it away from you.

Step up. Join the team. Fight alongside us.

Musings 2017

I’ve been running this blog for five and a half years, and it’s strange – if you’ve read this blog from the beginning, then you’ve seen me change so much over that time. When I started this blog, I was 24 and interested in most things that 24 year olds were into. It was 2012, and Occupy Oakland was the hip thing to talk about, and feminism hadn’t yet been exploited by mainstream political candidates for a failed attempt at ruining America.

But here we are, five and a half years later, and this blog, like a cockroach, is still hanging on. I don’t really know why I do it, but here I am, doing it anyways. It’s a death rattle of a blog now, and it tends to not live up to its name. Which is strange – I find that the current political climate is decidedly un-erotic, but, also, how many times I can talk about sucking dick before I sound like a broken record? If you’ve kept up with this blog at all, you know: I plunged into the deepest, darkest depths of sexuality, and now that I’ve resurfaced for air I’m not sure how much deeper and darker I want to go. People change.

Luckily there’s still enough shit to say about the rest of the entire world. I’m too jaded to jump naked into bed with a stranger these days, mostly because have you noticed this thing where sometimes strangers are white supremacists? Yuck. Or, liberals?? God, I can’t stand liberals. The white supremacists are terrible, but the liberals are insidious, which just makes me cringe more. Always with the, “Antifa is a gang!” bullshit but never the, “White supremacy is bad.” I just don’t get it. Although, on the other hand, because I didn’t go to the protest last week, my antifa friends think I’m a liberal. (Little do they know you can fight white supremacy at your work if you have a job. It’s called “change from within.” It’s also called being a militant radical but moving through society like a moderate centrist so you don’t estrange people with power. Not the most glamorous way to be antifa, but, hey, a girl’s gotta try.) I just can’t win these days!

A Touch of Suicide

I got roofied last week, and, oof, that was a wild ride. It sent me on a emotional roller coaster unlike anything I have experienced ever before – and I menstruate!

Whatever was in that drug sent me on a journey of chemically induced depression that felt HORRIBLE. It was actually kinda scary. I have never cried that much in my life. I’m talking about waking up crying and going to bed crying and crying intermittently throughout the day. By the time I stopped crying, my face felt empty. I was probably dehydrated, too. I didn’t know my body could produce that many tears. I had a job interview scheduled a few days after I got roofied, and I’m shocked that I didn’t burst into tears in the middle because, damn, I was nervous.

So, I’m pulling myself out of this chemically induced depression, and now I feel kinda angry. Which is great, because I’ve been longing to feel something other than sad for days now. I’m angry because, well, what the fuck! Who invented a drug that makes you feel like you’re dying and the world is ending and all of this is pointless? Who would want to do that? I mean, yeah, okay, I know who would want to do that (trigger warning): Bill Cosby. Because before the chemically induced depression, you pass out for half a day and that’s prime raping time. Blah blah blah. This shit sucks.

Lucky for me, the Bill Cosby aspect was a nonissue. But the depression stuff – oof, that was an issue.

Now, I know that the title of this post is “a touch of suicide,” and I don’t want to be alarmist. About a year ago I tried to commit suicide, and I failed (obviously), and that was very traumatic for the people close to me. Entitling this post “a touch of suicide” isn’t an indicator of the fact that I was actively trying to kill myself after being roofied. Although I’d be remiss if I said that death wasn’t on my mind during those few days. It was. I was thinking about death. But that’s very different from actively thinking about, planning or attempting to kill yourself.

The reason that the title to this post is “a touch of suicide” is because last year I tried to kill myself due to a drug psychosis. I was assaulted in my house, I had a panic attack, and then I took muscle relaxers instead of valium. And then I realized it and took the valium, too, and fell asleep for 36 hours. I woke up in a drug psychosis – a chemically induced depression, if you will.

The feeling that I had when I woke up after being asleep for 16 hours on roofies was in some ways similar to the feeling I had after being asleep for 36 hours on valium and muscle relaxers. It was the same scary, spinning sensation like everything was slipping away. After I woke up off of the roofies, I couldn’t focus my eyes or walk more than ten feet to the bathroom or kitchen because I got too dizzy to walk every time I stood up. Time starts sliding through you, and suddenly it’s days later. The crying is unmanageable.

I’ve dealt with depression before. Throughout my whole life. Sometimes these feelings happen naturally. But when it’s the result of drugs, it takes so much emotional fortitude to remind yourself: THIS ISN’T REAL. Even with organic depression, or depression that comes as the result of hormones or overindulgence in fun, I try to tell myself: this isn’t real. I just have to pass through this. I have to let time happen so I can feel better tomorrow. I have to keep sleeping and keep moving. I can’t let this shit kill me.

Here I am. Feeling much better. After three days of lying down and crying, I am now mobile again. I have checked back into reality. The sense of looming death has dissipated. I can function. I am angry, mostly because someone else had control over my emotional state. By drugging me, I found myself brushing shoulders with old feelings that had almost killed me. But I know I am lucky. I am lucky that nothing worse than getting drugged happened. I am lucky that the depression is gone. I am lucky that life moves on, just the same as usual. But I am still angry.

Contemporary Cynicism

Shit is weird.

I’m living through something that I never expected to happen in my lifetime. But, then again, life is full of surprises.

In many ways, we’ve been waiting for this, haven’t we? The mask is finally off, and these motherfuckers get to stop pretending. The enemy is at our gate. They were always there, but now the rest of the world gets to see the way we’ve been living this whole time.

But I am so tired. For those of us who always knew what the world was like, this is nothing new. But having fought this fight for our entire lives, it’s exhausting.

Having fought for so long, I thought that eventually things were going to get better. I thought that the fight – the fight to which I gave my all, the fight in which I wholly invested myself – would be over at some point. I never thought that the fight could get worse.

At certain points, I wonder how I’m going to find the energy to double down. I was already at my wit’s end a year ago, and now here we are. In moments of doubt, I don’t know what I’m going to do or how I’m going to carry on.

I waiver.

I see everyone else, who is so shocked and so passionate and has so much to say and so much energy to go out into the world and fight his fight. I wonder how they do it, but, then again, a year ago, I wondered how they managed to not see the world as it is. They got to call me a cynic. I got to be jealous that they could live without giving a fuck about all the shit that hurts the rest of us on a day to day basis.

I barely have the energy to engage in these conversations anymore. I don’t even want to stand up and voice my opinion – I am tired of the backlash that I have always received from doing it, and now…Now, everything is fraught with tension, tempers are flaring. I don’t have the energy to stand up and let the world know that I hate nazis because, well, I’ve been against this shit from the beginning, and I’ve been standing up and saying it this entire time, and I’ve been to the protests, and I’ve engaged in activism, and I’ve written about it all the time. I don’t need to engage in this bizarre liberal screaming match to see who hates nazis the most. This shit isn’t new to me. But it’s new to you, and it’s exhausting watching people try to out-antifa each other just for internet likes. I get it – you don’t like nazis. But what have you done about it lately that isn’t just a status update or a meme repost?

I guess I’ve been watching people not do shit for a long time. I should be used to it by now.

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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.