Hustling Love In A City Of Fiends

“Don’t you feel bad about yourself after a break up?”

I’m having a conversation with my older sister in a bar, and I can tell that she’s confused by how glibly I just announced that last week’s lover is out of the picture.

“No,” I reply simply, and upon observing her bemused reaction, I continue, “I know that I bring a lot to the table, and every time in the last year a relationship has ended, it’s because the man couldn’t keep up with me.”

“But, like, even if a guy breaks up with you, you don’t feel like you could have done something better?”

My sister is much older than I am, and here I am, lacing her with game when she’s the one with the giant rock on her hand.

“No, not really. The last time a guy broke up with me, I just used it as an opportunity to play the victim and run crying to all my friends who in turn comforted me by buying me things and taking me out. It’s a hustle.” It’s at this point that I realize I’ve probably reached the nth level of confidence in my life, which is cool, because having been a broken teenage girl with low self esteem, it feels good to transcend those feelings of self loathing and worthlessness into a point where I can see with much self assurance that I have too much dignity to put up with even an ounce of bullshit from someone who isn’t at least a 10/10 in the sack.

“Well, I would just feel badly about myself after a break up. Like something’s wrong with me.”

“Well. Do you think that there’s something wrong with me, sister?” I ask pointedly.


“Then. There you go. There’s nothing wrong with me just because I went through a break up. Everything is just fine, and wasting time thinking that anything is otherwise is not something that I’m interested in doing.”

She smiles at me. And I smile back.

A Fifteen Minute Bar Talk Filled With Subtexts of Social Injustice

“You know what’s wrong with today’s young people? They have no social skills! They can’t shake my hand and look me in the eye and tell me hello!”

I am, as usual, in a bar, and I am talking to a professional chef, so what I say next should be fitting.

“You know what I find wrong with today’s young people? Our access to food that nurtures us and sustains us and fulfills us is next to impossible! So it’s hard to go about your day and feel clear headed when the only food you can afford to eat is total crap, and then people judge you on your inability to interact with other people because malnutrition puts you in physical pain, makes you feel badly about yourself, and makes it hard to think, communicate or function!”

I’m drunk, so I’m chatty, but that’s something I can stand behind. It’s easy to accuse people who don’t have access to basic human needs such as fundamental education, job opportunities, nourishing food, health care, safe living spaces of being rude or impolite, but the fact of the matter is that poor social skills are born from a place of anxiety. And what is anxiety if not the fear of dying, and living in a modern society like today’s, the fear of dying stems from the fear of the inability to function in modern society. And that fear is perpetuated by systems that stymie access to things that this culture views as basic human rights but still makes unattainable to people who are descended from the lowest people here, which, let’s be honest – it’s very color coded.

It’s easy to look at people today and say that they are broken, that, oh, how awful, they need antidepressants in order to survive. They’re eking it out on unemployment and welfare, when really, rather than accusing victims of a system that doesn’t serve them, we’re not looking at the people who designed a system that didn’t sustain the humblest out of all of us. Which is an absurd thought even as we see economic inequality engulf the vast majority of the people who live within this system. Hm. This is a lot to process during my fifteen minute bar talk.

It’s hard to look at someone who is employed and has an apartment and eats everyday and sympathize with his plight with the youth who do not want to talk to him, mostly because, yeah. When I was young and had nothing, I resented every mother fucker who had something and expected me to smile in the midst of my pain. If you want people to smile at you, give them something to smile about. If people aren’t smiling, maybe it’s because they’re fucking hungry. It happens here. It happens in these streets. There are enough people out here who still don’t have a means to stop suffering, and America is the greatest country on the planet. There are still those among us who suffer, and we still find a way to blame them for their own suffering that those before us have designed uniquely for them. Crazy.

The Transgression of Touch

He can’t touch me. We’re sitting miles apart, together at this table, and he is looking at me and telling me that he loves me, but he cannot touch me. I’m not sure if he knows it yet, as he sits there and spins pretty things to say to me at the mood lit dinner table with glasses of wine and smiles, but his hands are broken. As they fumble in his lap while he looks down and dares to say things about how much he appreciates me, and then, later, when we are leaving this restaurant, he will not know how to touch me. He does not know how to tell me he loves me and how to put his hand on my arm. He cannot traverse from the world of words to the world of the flesh, even though I am sitting here, leaned back, tits out, grinning. Begging. Wanting. Waiting. I wonder how long it will take him to realize that he wants me so badly but does not know how to do it. Will it be days? Or weeks? Or months, even, of more of this. More sitting at dinner tables and pleasant conversation. Before he realizes that he is too afraid or too amateurish or too insecure to touch me. To kiss me. That he is afraid of what will happen with his lips on mine. That his heart will beat too furiously as he comes close to me. That he will lean in and realize he has no idea what he is doing. While I sit there indifferently, because I am a master of sex, and if someone cannot figure out how to do something as simple as kiss a girl as cruel as me, then what’s to be said of the sex that I want to be having, which is brutal and punishing and lasts for hours. He will never touch me, because somehow without me even saying it, he already knows. He is not ready to kiss me, and he is not ready to fuck me, which means he is not ready to reach across this table and put his hand on my arm. Or, even worse, on my thigh. I sit here and watch this happen. I do not know how to be generous with a man like this. I do not know how to say, “It is okay to kiss me,” because I do not know how to say, “You need to fuck me better if you want me to love you back.” Truth is a hard art. I am not very good at it, so I let all of this sink away from around me, until I find someone who is stupid enough to fuck me right, which will hurt me eventually because people who fuck me right are cruel, horrible people. But I always love them back, so I guess this is my own punishment.

Fuck Your Transphobia

“Yeah, well, you know, the last time I saw him he was fucking some tranny bitch at the after hours.”

Oh, dear. Here we go again. Again with the transphobia and slut shaming and politically incorrect terminology. Although I just sit there and listen, mostly because it’s interesting to me to hear that someone I used to fuck with has fully embraced his skoliosexuality, and after all we been through, he’s still doubling down on freak and fucking someone who doesn’t even look like me. Although: is that any of my business? We don’t even fuck anymore. Technically, no, it’s not any of my business who he fucks anymore, although, hey, here I am. And someone we both know is telling me who he fucks, so, yeah, I’ll take it. I’m a die hard gossip. And, oh my goodness, he is fucking a trans woman??? For serious??

My emotional response here is varied. Mostly because, hey, if someone you used to fuck is fucking someone else, the usual emotions pop up: mild jealousy, a bit of spite, a bit of shit talking. But it’s 2016, so the modern versions of jealousy, spite and shit talking have little to do with sexual orientation, sexual preferences or sexual practices. In fact, given the circumstances of someone I used to fact now fucking a transgendered woman is the least of my concern. I mean, if I’m being totally honest, I’m kind of relieved that he’s totally out about fucking trans women, mostly because for the time that we were fucking he seemed mostly into it, but I could also see him being more into fucking trans women than cis women, and maybe that’s what will bring him happiness. Because heaven knows that we didn’t find happiness, and while in fleeting moments I attribute it to vague social diseases such as miscommunication or lack of attraction, the fact of the matter is: I am so happy to know that it had nothing to do with me and everything to do with the fact that society frowns on men who want to fuck trans women. Or, no, that’s not it. Society shouldn’t frown on men who want to fuck – no, love trans women. There is something wrong with a society that tricks a man into thinking he should love me instead of what he truly desires. There is something wrong with placing me in between a man and the person he chooses to love, just because society dictates that I am what he should love instead. That is disgusting. I do not want the love of a man who wants to love a trans woman, because we all lose.

So I guess this is me saying: please stop pretending to love me. Please stop pretending to love my fellow cis women. If you love a trans woman, please do it. Please do it loudly, and out in public. You do no one any service by pretending that you love me instead. You are a liar, and you are a fake. If you think that I believe you for one second, and after I uncover your lie, if you think that I respect you, I just want to let you know: do us all a favor. Love the one that you want to love. The destruction of male sexuality is vast and expansive. Spare me the indignity of falling prey to a man who does not know himself.

The Pilar Of Your Dreams

He reads my blog like he is talking to me. For him, it is like we are still together and he never left. He can sit in a room far, far away and still hear my voice even though it has been months since we have spoken. He can hear what I have to say, and he can think about it, too. Like we are talking without me even being in the room. Without me even knowing. We have been having a conversation on this blog for perhaps years now, but little did I know that I have been doing all the talking and none of the listening. I am engaged in a relationship through the depths of the Internet, and I never see him anymore, so how could I know that we were still seeing each other like this. Online. He has said nothing to me for so long that he had washed away from the shores of my memory, so when he still hears my voice, I wonder what I am saying. I wonder who I am in his mind, or what do I look like, and what am I wearing, and in his mind, how often do we fuck? Every night? Or only once a week? In his mind, are we having anal sex? I would hope at the very least that the me in his mind that he has built up after all these minds is just as much of a freak in his imagination as I am in reality. At the very least. I wonder if the me in his mind loves him, because based on this blog I cannot tell. Does he hear us fighting? Or am I kind to him? This makes me afraid to see him, because I do not want to ruin the me in his mind that he has been working on for so long. He has built a woman who could never exist, and I know now that I am probably a paltry imitation of the Pilar that lives in all his fantasies and day dreams. And I wonder what he would say to me if he could see me. Would I come in, mid conversation, interrupting the conversation with the other me that he is already having? Or when I see him, will he be happy to see me, and will he kill the me that isn’t real and take me as I am instead? What is better? The perfect delusion that will never abandon him? Or me, as I am, and I am dangerous, because he does not know what will happen when I am a person of my own accord and with my own autonomy and my own ability to walk away from him the moment he becomes wretched and vile, as happens to most men who are in love with most women. Perhaps it is better for him to have me as I never will be: alone in his mind and belonging to only him.

Pilar’s Collection of Lost Souls

He’s drawn to me, and I don’t know why. Not yet. But I’ll figure it out soon enough. Just as I always do. With some new person gravitating into my personal orbit. I am a shiny object, and he is flitting and floating in, fixated and mesmerized by glitter of me like some chintzy costume jewelry. It’s a trick that doesn’t work on most people, but it’s working on him, just as it has worked on many other people in the past. He is coming towards me. He is almost mine.

And while I should be pleased that I have yet another man to add to my collection of lost souls, the more I do this, the more concerned I am about the people who are coming into my life. I have learned through bitter experience that there is something gravely wrong with every man who is attracted to a woman like me. There is something broken about a man who thinks that he can sidle up next to me and not get burned by someone who rages in the night like a fire in these streets. There is something strange about man who wants to jump on a sinking ship. He would follow me into the depths of hell if only I knew the way. I do not know if I want a man like that nipping at my heels. I have enough men like that already.

But despite all of that, I do not stop him. He is the master of his own destiny, and if his destiny is destruction by my hands, then so be it. I am not clever enough to stop destiny. The more lost souls I have in my collection, the better. One day, when I have enough lost souls, I will stack them all on top of each other and use them as a staircase so I can finally walk out of this rabbit hole of chaos and despair. I will leave them all there, grabbing at my ankles, and I will walk into the sunshine. That one day I will no longer have to be a lost soul, either.

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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.