Leaving Me

Fingers twist tightly around whatever flesh I can hang onto in this almost over moment. I can feel him leaving. I can see him walking out the door. We are lying here together, but as long as we are both breathing, we are both catapulting ourselves into the impending doom of being apart, yet again.

Apart is so dangerous when the rest of the world is cleaving its way between us. Hands grab phones, and already we are not thinking about each other. To the bathroom he goes while I lie here in agony, without him. And how soon will it be before he’s far away? Before he’s too far to come back? When we are devastated by distance and left only to our own devices and other people to fill the hole in our hearts.

Come back to me. I close my eyes tightly and pray for him to come back to me. I pray that I can forget that he ever left me here in the first place. That I can be back in the moment when I was lying here, waiting, and then he finally opened the door and came in. Take me back to a place and a time where we close and in love. I would like to live twenty minutes ago for the rest of time.

Cease To Exist

And then he’s gone. He’s no longer here. In every moment that he is not here, tender at the end of my finger tips, is he even real? I am not entirely convinced that he is out there in the world if I cannot see him. Although, my social media feeds have become such an excellent reminder of the fact that people exist even when I cannot see them. If it weren’t for that, I might thoroughly believe that I am the only person in the world and anything that I cannot behold first hand is not a factor in reality.

What does he do when he’s not here. Who does he become. I realize that the answer to those questions have no effect on me whatsoever, so it’s hard to muster the strength to care. About him or anyone else when I am not in direct contact with them. Does he simply retire into a state of slumber? How does he live when I’m not watching?

He exists without me when I’m not around, which I find hard to believe. But he would be hard pressed to fathom that I continue to live life even when he’s not around. It’s a mutual feeling: you are nothing without me. If I cannot see you or touch you or taste you, how can you prove to me that you are real?

He vanishes in the blink of an eye, and I’m left here to be concerned only with the people in my life. Anyone who is not here right now is not important to me. Which is why he is not here.

Do You Fluff Your Number?

“Did you used to date so-and-so?”

It’s late, and my boo is asking me about his coworker, who I saw earlier tonight.

“No,” I reply.

“He said you did.”

“Really!” I can tell that my boo does not like that he has to ask this question, but I’m fucking fascinated by what he just said. “That guy said we dated? We never even slept together! I barely even know him!”

“Well, that’s what he said.” I can tell that my boo is confused, probably because he hasn’t been in this situation with me before. But I have been here many times: another random dude in Oakland is lying about fucking me. So funny!

I laugh it off, but I can tell my boo still isn’t very comfortable with the situation. I’m not sure what I can say here that doesn’t make me sound like an absolute harlot, so I take his hand, I smile, and I say, “You know how guys are. They lie about things trying to act cool.”

Yeah. You know how guys are. We all have to live with men in our lives, and, oof, let me tell you, girlfriend, guys lie through their teeth about who they fuck. Constantly. I don’t really get it. Supposedly, women lie about who they fuck, too, but they try to downplay it because society hates a slut. Men, on the other hand, fluff up their numbers – because society loves a stud.

But in the modern era, lying about who you fuck is just trashy. I think we can all agree that who you fuck and how you fuck and where you fuck and all those gory details don’t really matter to anyone you’re not fucking. Even some of the people you fuck probably don’t care. So there’s no reason to be dishonest about it. There’s no point in making shit up.

Having (on multiple occasions) been the victim of some guy trying to fluff up his numbers, let me tell you: you just look fucking dumb. I get that me and also most of my sexually affluent friends have been around the block a few times, so trying to sneak yourself onto my bedpost notch might at first glance seem like something that might go unnoticed. What’s the difference between 57 notches and 58 notches? Between 92 and 93 notches? Some people aren’t counting.

But some people are counting. In fact, I’m counting. I know how many people I fucked, and I remember all their names and all their faces and all the circumstances. Sure, I was drunk for several of those encounters, but never too drunk to remember that I fucked.

So, I remember you. And I remember that we never fucked.

Honestly, I’m offended that you think you can walk around with my name in your mouth trying to improve your ho credentials by saying we fucked. And you look sus around the people that I do fuck, because they report back to me, and they tell me in so many words that they knew you were a liar because you couldn’t even name any of my signature fuck moves. They told me that they could tell you had read this blog, but reading this blog and having an imagination doesn’t mean we fucked. And it doesn’t mean you can talk about having fucked me, especially around the people who fuck me.

Can you quit it with the silly little lies? I’m aware that we live in a society where men have more credibility and more of a voice than women, but, well, what do you think I’m trying to accomplish with this blog?

Waking Up With The One You Love

When I fall asleep, he is next to me. When I wake up in the morning, I am in his arms, and because of that, everything feels slightly better. I feel slightly safer and slightly stronger, which isn’t meant to denigrate my own personal strength, but rather to state that together we are better.

Softly in the morning light, and as my eyes flutter open: there he is. Wrapped around me tightly, like maybe I should never leave. If I could, I would be here, forever, in this moment with him. Before the phones open up and the emails are read. Before the news of the horror of today rolls in. Before we remember where we have to go and what we have to do. It is all just right now, this fleeting moment of peace. The few seconds where I can breathe, beneath these sheets, with him.

But of course it doesn’t last forever. Would it still be good if it did last forever? Perhaps it’s all the toiling that I do throughout the day that makes this moment so sweet. Me at the bus stop, with him on my mind. Me, at work, making money, and the thought of him is what makes me smile. At night, when I wait for him, and I know he is coming. I sleep so soundly knowing that he is the first thing I see each morning. There are no nightmares when I lie down next to him.

A Few Notes On The Discourse Surrounding Men Wearing Women’s Clothing

Let’s be honest: a man in woman’s clothing is sexy as fuck. If you have the confidence to wear those heels, or that romper, or those floral overalls, or girl’s sweatpants, and still spit game like a champ – oh, yeah, I know your dick game is strong if you’re not going to let all the shit talking dudes slow you down. And that’s hot.

There’s something about those romper memes that is slightly transphobic and homophobic. As though putting on women’s clothing is automatically emasculating. Or that there’s something shameful about a man who wants to be pretty. Or that as soon as you cease to conform to society’s cardboard cutout of masculinity, your dick shrivels up and you forget how to fuck. But as a woman, just let me say: I have sat there and watched men take off all sorts of feminine clothing and women’s garments and then proceeded to get the best dick of my life. In fact, I have noticed that men who wear women’s clothing tend to be more sensitive, on both an emotional and sexual level. Hand over fist, men in women’s clothing consistently give better head than their motorcycle jacket and denim wearing counterparts. If you’re not afraid to be seen in public in a dress, imagine all the things you’re not afraid to do in the bedroom. Ass eating, much? Come on, boys, back me up on this one.

So don’t hate. I still see all you cishet dudes wearing polo shirts and 501 jeans throwing down the weakest, two minute, little dick game. Don’t act like it’s the clothes that make your dick game. It’s your dick game that makes your dick game. Doesn’t matter how you dress it up.

Now, I will admit that there are a few things about men in women’s clothing that do bother me. 1) When a man with no style wears women’s clothing and thinks that it’s cool. Because, come on, we’re talking fashion here, not trends. If you’re going to wear my clothes, you better look at least as good as me. I don’t want to see any of this no style having bullshit, wearing a 2007 F21 dress with vans and a hoodie, with that chipped nail polish and those off fleek eyebrows. If you’re going to be a dude in a dress, try to make it look sexy and not like you stole clothes out of the wrong washer at the laundromat after you finished your sentence at Rita. If you’re going to wear a dress, enjoy wearing the dress. Don’t make it look like your mom made you wear this for your first day of school but really you want to be one of the boys playing in the dirt. Wear a dress because you want to, and because you like the way it makes you feel, and because you look good in it.

2) When straight dudes dress up in women’s clothing, that’s cool. But if you’re a cishet dude in a dress at a party, you’re still a cishet dude. You’re not suddenly a gay boy or a fairy or a t-girl or a drag queen. If you’re just going to go home at the end of the night and take off your dress and fuck your girlfriend, that’s fine. Own it. Yeah, you’ll get attention from everyone at the queer party for being a hot dude in a dress, and we all know attention is fun. But cishet dudes in dresses do not get to appropriate the queer, feminist and trans struggle, so just keep that in mind, okay? Yes, you can sit with us, but remember that you are an ally. You can put on your 501s and polo shirt again tomorrow and pee in the men’s bathroom no problem, so don’t detract from the people who do this every day.

Sex During The Trump Presidency

His hand on my thigh as we sit here at this bar.

The world is different now than it was six months ago. The world has changed since the last time I saw him. I have changed. And he has, too. Less the overwhelming demon that I was expecting to see tonight and more like the rest of us: weary from the world. There is a furtiveness in his eyes that has become familiar to everyone around here. It’s a symptom of constant political alarm. It’s a regression to a state of panicked survival. A relapse into animal moments hidden beneath the complex social structure of high functioning consciousness and the ability to write two page essays on Facebook comment threads. But not the ability to sit here and look me in the eyes and realize everything is going to be okay. We don’t have the luxury of our life without anxiety anymore. We have been defeated by media campaigns and social feeds.

I reach out and touch him, but we are a million miles away at this point. Close enough to fuck but not close enough to love. We are alienated from each other, just as we always have been, but it tastes different now. There is a desperation between us, as we long so intensely to come together. But the anxiety. The anxiety of existing in this world. There is nothing sexy about our generation.

I have read the click bait articles about it. They leer at us and say we do not fuck like we used to. They say that our generation doesn’t have sex like they did. I try not to sigh and tell them that a lifetime of antidepressants and the punishment of capitalism has killed our sex drive. There is a collective self worthlessness that is plaguing this generation. Sex doesn’t seem to help it too much anymore. Hook up culture is a wan alternative to truly fucking. Rape culture is the dominant sexual narrative of our times. The only people worth fucking are the ones who can afford to buy a body that is worthy of lust, and, even then, do those people fuck?

How are we supposed to be ordinary people at the bar. How are we supposed to go home and fuck. There’s a sadness coming with us wherever we go. Everyone is watching, and nobody cares. To fuck is a risk that none of us know how to take. Clothes come off for the camera, but who here can speak of a thing like pleasure in a time like now?

I dream of those days when we were all naked and free. When desire was unfettered from the prison of reality as we know it 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.