About You Boys

I can just imagine all of you, huddled around a computer screen, reading in unison about the gory non-details of my so called love life. It makes me laugh, really, to think of all of you, superimposing me and him (who you say is your friend) into every awkward episode that I catalog on this blog. That every detail about everything I say is somehow an invective against him.

I know what it looks like when you tell him when you see him, “Hey, did you read the blog today?”

You really shouldn’t do that. He’s a very unstable person.

This blog has always been the bane of my relationships. (Except for one – hey, gangsta boo, miss ya!) Which is strange because this blog predates most of my relationships, and most of my boyfriends already knew about the blog before they jumped into bed with me.

This blog is part of who I am and what I do, and for a man to tell me he loves me except he doesn’t love the part of me that puts this blog up on the Internet – well, that’s disingenuous love, isn’t it? That’s loving not me as a whole person but loving the parts of me that are convenient to be around. He probably loves the parts of me that has a car and works at a bar and gets hooked up at various restaurants around town. He probably also loves the part of me that is good at fucking, but what he doesn’t realize is that that’s the same part of me as where the blog comes from. He loves the part of me that needs him every day, all the time, constantly, desperately, but he doesn’t realize that’s the part of me that screams and cries in public and in an uncomfortable way whenever we’re fighting.

He loves me with my mask on. He has no idea who I really am.

Which is why he tells me I’m selfish. I’ve gotten that from men before in different forms: self serving, self invested. I don’t know why I should be insulted that someone thinks I’m selfish. I’m a single, independent woman who was to provide for herself, and I am willing to do whatever I want to ensure that I am happy because, well, no one else will. Selfishness is a survival mechanism, and it’s not mutually exclusive to altruism. What’s good for the goose is good for the gander, and I’m the goose in this scenario.

I would ask the rhetorical question: what am I supposed to give up in order to not be seen as selfish? But I already know the answer. I would have to give up this blog. Which isn’t searingly sexual in the least bit anymore, but it used to be, so it’s a threat.

But it’s not that the blog makes me selfish – it’s that the blog gives me a voice and it gives me power, two things that men don’t really find to be attractive qualities in women. In times like this, criticizing me for having a platform upon which to speak about things that effect me as a woman and may at times involve sexuality – sounds pretty fascist to me. Which a few years ago would have been a funny thing to say, but fascism is a real threat in our country these days. I do not support fascism.

I had shut the blog down following a traumatic incident with a partner. I decided to put it back up because I didn’t want someone else to intimidate me into not doing what I love doing most: writing.

So there he goes, another man upset by the things I said that weren’t about him on this blog. Fantastic. I cried about it because I loved him, but that’s okay because I’m not going to cry anymore.

Dealing With Heartbreak 101

Well. This is incredibly painful. It’s probably some of the most searing emotional pain that I have ever experienced. Walking around with my heart shattered and my throat in knots. I feel transparent and forlorn, like the world could have been such a beautiful place but now everything has turned grey on a sunny day.

I did this to myself. Now I understand trite sentiments like “love sucks” because I guess it does, although it’s not that simplistic. Love was wonderful just a few weeks ago. It was something I could pour myself into, something that got me out of bed every day. Love made me wonderful and wanted and like I mattered to at least one other person, so I mattered to the entire world.

Now? Not so much. I find myself scraping myself off the floor at any given moment. This sense of defeat has made it hard to look other people in the eye. I am afraid that they will see how weak I am. That they will know that I tried my hardest to love someone else, to make it work, and it all failed. It all went to shit. My best wasn’t good enough, and now look at me. What am I doing here.

All I can do is work on the big rebuild. If he doesn’t want me, then I have to want myself. If he isn’t the reason I get out of bed every day, then I am the reason. If he doesn’t love me, then I will love myself. I am trying to tell myself that these feelings of worthlessness and hopelessness and the distinct sense that I am not worthy of love – those are all lies that he gave to me, and I cannot keep anything he gave to me. He gave me so many lies. He gave me so much pain.

I am going to carry my heartbreak with dignity. I will wear this pain with grace. It’s too late for me to do anything other than that. There is nothing left to be repaired. There is no cure for what ails me. All I can do is look good while moving forward into the future, without him. I remind myself that every minute that goes by is one more minute within which he is becoming a distant and more distant memory. That is good.

The pain I experience does not define me, and it does not hinder my ability to love other people. I take the pain and the lies that he gave me, and I wait for them to go away. I wait for all of this to stop hurting, no matter how long it takes. One day it will not hurt anymore, and that will be the day that I know he has not won in his war against me.

East Bay Sexpress: Best Of The Bedroom

I was writing a few blurbs for the East Bay Express Best of the Bay issue when there it was: that stuck feeling. I had been feeling it all week, and there I was, hours from my deadline, fingers hovering above keys when I realized: do I even want to do this? My list of submissions had been slim (26 this year compared to 80 last year), and I was only tasked with writing six blurbs this year (as opposed to 26 last year). As I sat there, feeling slightly frozen, I realized: I’m having a hard time seeing what’s good here anymore.

It’s not just me, either. After the fire, and after the election, everyone around me seems either subtly stultified or itching to run away. I’m in the former category personally, but that look in my friends’ eyes – it’s not the same as it used to be. We used to go out, and get drunk and fucked up, and be wild, and feel pretty, and all fuck each other with reckless abandon. Now? Well, the alcohol just dulls the pain. We’ve become those kinds of people.

Oakland is not a very exciting place to be anymore. Maybe there are things happening, but for some reason I’m not participating. I thought that it was because I’m getting older and more reserved. It’s possible that I’m getting older, and I’m depressed.

Everything points back to the fire and the election, the compounded miseries of winter 2016. I didn’t want to write my best of blurbs because I realized I was still suffering from the idea that nothing good has happened in the last year, and I can’t really recall anything that gave me an overwhelming sense of hope. We’re still going to do a best of issue? What good is left in the town? It is being burned to the ground as we speak.

But that’s a self defeating attitude. I think like that sometimes, but then I remind myself: we must rebuild. We have to rebuild. We are going to rebuild.

The problem with rebuilding is that things will never be the same. But maybe they don’t have to.

The problem with rebuilding in Oakland is that things will never be the same because the heavy hand of gentrification has taken so much of this city away from us. There’s nothing left to be had here. Not for us, at least.

It can’t be that dire. I don’t want it to be. I’m a survivor. I’m a fucking survivor. We have been through worse. Although, I am nagged by the idea that things were supposed to get easier when we got older. I have seen dreams crushed before, but always slowly and in small ways.

The people we are now in our moment of crisis will define what this city becomes for the next generation. The people in power have failed us, and with that we feel powerless.

We need to find our power.

So I found mine. I drank the last sip of cold coffee and hunkered down. I wrote my blurbs. The sense that this city is falling apart does not give me a good enough reason to stop celebrating the small victories, the little guys.

Now more than ever, I would like to appreciate the people around me who have persevered and stuck it out. Who will be here longer than the rest of them. This city is a hostage of its own sense of doom. We can set it free.

*

In years past, I thought it was funny to do a poll where people could vote for the best sex related topics (mostly I was interested in who the best lay in Oakland was because I was trying to be it). But I don’t really give a fuck about that anymore, so no poll! But the pun is still aptly corny for this blog.

Happy Birthday Donna Kellogg

 

Happy birthday to my friend Donna Kellogg. She would have been 33 today.

Donna was one of those people I met in my formative years, when I was young and impressionable. She made a good impression on me. In fact, if I hadn’t spent all those wild night riding around to parties, talking about film, listening to Blatz while we worked together at Mars, I doubt I would even have this blog.

Donna was one of my first friends who was a real artist. Who did things. Who went out to art parties. We went to First Friday back in 2006 when it was still just all the art weirdos. We found our ways into so many different parties and warehouses and party houses. We didn’t even go to bars back then.

I was new to the world when I met Donna. She showed me her way in it. And now I’m in her world without her. I don’t really like it here without her.

I wish that I could write more about her and our good times together in this post, but I have started crying again, so we’ll just have to leave it there for now.

Intersectionality Gone Wrong

Somebody posted this video from The Hard Times, a satirical news outlet. The premise of the video is that the men at Ally Weekly overtalk and mansplain feminism to women in the name of being feminist allies. This is a common theme in many women’s lives, but this satirical video subtly reinforced racial divisions within the feminist world. What we see here is a panel of white women facing off against a group of racially mixed men. This is problematic in that it validates the racist undertones of white feminism. So much so that the only time race is mentioned is when the black male self references himself as black in a sexual manner, hence reinforcing the hypersexualization of black males.

This is why so many women of color have problems with the feminist movement; it is often branded as a movement for white women, not only against men but also against men of color. This leaves women of color at a cross roads: do we fight along gender lines or along race lines? Intersectionality is supposed to give us the option to choose both, but often times choosing both marginalizes us even further. In instances like the above, the feminist struggle becomes invalidated because of its short sightedness when it comes to the inclusion of different struggles.

I guess it’s just ironic to see something branded as satire in order to bring light to feminist issues reinforcing racial stereotypes and excluding every woman who isn’t white. Or maybe ironic is the wrong word. It’s just real. White women complain about being silenced at the hands of men, but women of color don’t even get a seat at the table. Nothing satirical about this.

In Love, With Flaws Part II

I love him because he sees me, not as the woman in high heels and furs parading through bars like a spectacle of femininity. He sees me beneath all the clothes and the make up. He sees me when I’m naked, flaws and all, in my moments of bad moods. He sees me when I’m sinning, and he doesn’t run away. He knows what it feels like when I hurt him, and he doesn’t hate me for it. He sees the badness inside me, the bad thoughts, the bad deeds. He sees my hypocrisies and my moral misgivings and the things that I do on purpose just to be a bad person for the sake of being bad. He sees the cruelty in me, in those moments of madness, flaring up like chaos, and he does not back away from me. He sees all of that – all my hurt, all my insecurities, all my malice. He is not afraid. He does not abandon me because of the devil inside me.

He doesn’t run away from me when I’m strong, either. When I’m stronger than I have to be. When I’m pretty and smart and winning and rich. He isn’t intimidated by me when I do more than he does, when I succeed, when I accomplish. He is emasculated by me at my best.

He doesn’t place me on a pedestal just because that’s what men do with women. I am not an object to be admired or coddled, just because my whims and my moods are fascinating to him. I am not a doll on a shelf with which he plays out his myriad fantasies. I am not on object of adoration. I am not a woman he buys at the store to play the role of woman in his life. I am an equal.

Because of all this: I love him. He does not condescend or get defensive or get disgusted at me when the person I am bleeds beyond the lines of the woman he has drawn me to be. He does not keep me in a box because he knows I would not stay there. He doesn’t put me in a pedestal because he knows I would jump down, even if it hurt. He does not keep me on a leash, because I am not a pet, I am a person, but I bite like a dog.

I am me when I’m with him, and I love him for letting me be the me that I want to be. I am the best me when I am with him, even if the best me sometimes stumbles and falls. He picks me back up. I am comfortable with him because I can be comfortable with my faults. When the mask comes off, we both laugh.

And he can be himself, too. I see him, and everything that is wrong with him, and everything that is right with him, and everything that he wants to be, and I love him. He is changing every day – some days are good, and some days are bad, but at the end of every day, we have each other. That is what matters most.

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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.