The Original Sinner

There is a badness inside me, and I don’t know how to get it out. I don’t know who I would be without it, but for the sake of argument, I think I would be perfect. If there weren’t these deep, reeling emotions tucked down inside me, curdled and rabid, metastatic and virulent. The badness breaks out of me in silent moments, slipping out sinister into my daily interactions. Tugging on the sleeve of every valiant emotion that is supposed to make me feel good about myself. As I toil on, trying to be good, but then there it is, yet again: the badness inside me.

I am compelled to do things at which innocent bystanders scoff. It is foolish for me to be like this. It is awful for me to be this person. To be shackled to the sin within me that is dying to get out. Although I ask myself: should I live a life without pleasure? Should I deny myself the world? What would I gain if I killed the badness inside me? If I spent every night slowly suffocating my animal urges with a pillow. It would be messy, to murder my need to fuck and to feast and to experience pain both in the first hand and as it is inflicted upon other people.

The demons inside me tell me that this is okay, I am just a curious person. I merely want to know why people scream while they are bleeding – is it because they are weak? Or because the world needs to know that they are bleeding? Is it a natural reaction to pain? So I find a way to watch people bleed, so that I may observe, and then I may ask, “Why do you scream when you bleed?” I bleed myself, too, at times, and I try my hardest not to scream. Just because I want to know what it feels like to bleed silently, and if it feels better or worse than screaming. I haven’t decided on an answer yet, which is fine, because I haven’t stopped bleeding for years now.

But the rest of the world is not okay with this. Apparently, when I see someone bleeding, I am supposed to call 911 and apply pressure to the wound. Standing there and watching is frowned upon. Asking questions is even worse. Trying to understand the human pain I inflict on other people is a sign of malignancy in my mind. But as I look around the room, feeling chastised by some invisible, higher moral force, I wonder: if we’re supposed to be running around, stopping the bleeding, and making everything okay, why is someone taking time out of their day to tell me that what I’m doing is wrong? Shouldn’t this person be acting as medic #1? As opposed to someone who has pulled me aside to tell me that I am bad. I look around the room, and as I am receiving the inevitable lecture about the morality of watching people bleed, and how that is bad, I realize suddenly: everyone here is bleeding. And there is no way we can possibly stop it all. It doesn’t matter if it is my fault or someone else’s: we all bleed eventually. What is so wrong about wanting to know why this massacre is happening, or what if this is not a massacre at all, but this is just how we are. What if this constant state of pain is just the homeostasis of our existence, and there is nothing wrong with wanting to know, but it is easier to point and say that I am Eve, the original sinner.

The Limits of Self Loathing

He doesn’t know how many times people have said these things to me, and this is why I say them back to the world. He doesn’t know how many times people have told me that I couldn’t, or that I wasn’t good enough. Or I wasn’t pretty enough, or I didn’t make enough money, or that I was stupid, and that I shouldn’t aspire, I should just accept things the way they are. He doesn’t know about the little ways that the world says that to me every day. Every day I wake up and have to listen people imposing self doubt on me, even though I don’t really need it anymore. The world looks down on me for being a whore, and the whores look down on me for not making any money. He doesn’t know that the only that works is for me to turn around and proving everyone wrong, I still get pleasure out of spitting back in their faces and saying, “How does it feel to have someone tell you that you can’t?”

But, no, that’s not true. If I think about it – doesn’t he know, too? He knows what it’s like to be lesser than and reminded of his inferiority every day in every way. I don’t say these things to hurt him, because I know that he hurts enough already. Maybe that’s why we’re partners in crime; I see in him the same hurt that he sees in me. It’s the same isn’t it, to feel like this, to absorb all of the world’s judgment, to constantly try and then always give up because we will never be enough. Maybe I should stop whining about how the world is telling me that I will never be enough, and I should turn to him and let him know that we are enough, together. And that’s all that we need, because fuck the world.

Sex Like Summer

He kisses me softly, and I lie there, waiting for everything to feel better. It doesn’t, in the damp dark, where we are naked and sipping whiskey at 4 am. I’ve been here before, and while it has been fine in the past, my eyes drift away in the silence as my eyes start closing and visions of the recent past start resurfacing. I’m not sure if I should be here, or if this is a good thing, mostly because I told myself I wouldn’t act out of anger anymore. I don’t want to be this person anymore, and I thought that I had stopped, but I guess not, because here I am, doing exactly the thing that I told myself I wouldn’t do anymore. Two years ago I told myself I would stop fucking out my emotions on innocent men, that I would stop taking home someone else when the other guy was pissing me off. I told myself I would stop fucking people in an effort just to fuck people over. I told myself: no more heavy rebounds. No more one night stands for my self esteem. But here I am, and I’m upset still. I’m upset about the way that I’ve been treated by a man, so I am remedying it by being treated by another man. It’s an endless cycle that seems to act merely as a doubling down on personal crisis. When sex with one person doesn’t work out, try sex with someone else! Fantastic. So here I am, and while there are memories swirling in my mind of the recent hurt at the hand of someone I thought loved me, I look at the man next to me and wonder how likely it is that this will happen all over again, just with someone new. And how many people do I have to fuck out of desperation before I finally find the validation that I so desire in this very moment. Sex is great, but it turns out that I probably just want love instead. This is no way to go about getting it, but if I stop sleeping around, isn’t that just an admission of defeat?

Sex And The Town

Well, yeah, I’ve heard the comparison before. My friends like to refer to me as their personal Carrie Bradshaw, which is cool. I respect it. I’ve enjoyed all seasons of Sex and The City. If anything, that show is iconic and a fundamental part of many of my peer’s early experiences of sexuality. That was the first show that made it okay for us to talk about sex in cosmopolitan environment (pun intended).

Having recently made the decision to rewatch a few episodes of Sex and The City, I must admit that I quite enjoyed it and found it to be, in some ways, an upscale version of my own life. On the one hand, this made me feel like I’m completely unoriginal and just an Oakland Coliseum flea market bootleg knock off of Carrie Bradshaw, but, hey, I love the Oakland Coliseum flea market, and I love knock offs, so I’m not tripping. On the other hand, I realized that taking that idea and adapting it to the Bay Area, the center of sex radicalism and also regular radicalism, is vastly different from the polished New York veneer of Carrie Bradshaw in the early aughts. While the breadth of relationships that the show covers is still relevant, there was something about some of the episodes that seemed a bit squeamish, as issues such as golden showers and gender queer poly relationships were poo pooed. Carrie comments from a perspective of privilege, which is accessible and easily digestible.

I know that there’s nothing shockingly revolutionary about being a woman with a sex blog in the Bay Area in 2016, because this has all been done before. Throughout history, the fascination of sexuality has been documented on a personal level for the world to see many times before. Although, just because we’ve seen it before doesn’t mean that we’re not going to look when we see it pop up again, in a newer, prettier way. But credit where credit is due: I love Sex and The City for all the obviously tawdry reasons, and I’m always flattered when my friends call me their personal Carrie Bradshaw. I am happy to be that for you, ladies.

Eye Contact, Please

We were sitting at the bar, fairly close, and then, all of a sudden, I got a flash of insecurity. As we were engaging in our normal witty bar banter, there it was – he kept on looking at my mouth. Oh, fuck. As I sat there, trying to be interesting and funny, every couple of minutes, the glance down at my mouth. Do I have something stuck in my teeth? Am I breaking out and I don’t know it? Is my lipstick all over my chin? Is he really just sitting there, staring at a piece of lacinato kale lodged between my two front teeth? What is it?

I sat there, feeling a bit unsettled before I excused myself to the bathroom with a toothpick to do a thorough examination. When I got into the bathroom, I realized with a bit of weirdness – no, nothing in my teeth. My lipstick is fine. I haven’t broken out in boils on my upper lip. So I finished my business, and went back to the bar to settle back into conversation. And then there it was, again! The glance at my mouth. Now, with the confidence that there was no glaring flaw drawing his attention, I realized: oh. There’s nothing wrong. This is purely sexual.

So I sat back and smiled. What I thought in one moment was an obvious flaw on my behalf is now an admonition that all the power is in my hands. Fair enough.

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He’s Cumming

“Oh my god, I’m cumming!”

He whips out his dick and I look over in glee as, dick in hand, there it goes, squirting out, and now there’s come everywhere. I was kinda hoping he would cum inside me, but I think he’s dealt with too many pregnancies and abortions to fall for that one ever again, although, hey, I’m on the best birth control on the world. Maybe I should tell him. But now isn’t the time for that, as we’re lying there naked and both covered in cum and sweat. The sheets on my bed are slightly slipping off. The pillows are strewn across the floor. It’s like a stunned silence, this moment of afterglow. The sun breaking in from behind the curtains. Both of us lying there, too fucked to move, although I tell him there’s a towel over there, although should I stand up and hand it to him? I don’t feel like standing up. Not after all that fucking. Not after he made me cum like that and the delight of his dick inside me still has me reeling and nailed to the bed.

I don’t know if I should look at him or if I’m supposed to look away. I feel like a greedy child as my eyes graze over his thighs and his cock and the hair on his chest. I’m too afraid to look into his eyes and see what’s in there, so I lean for a little bit and kisses on neck. God, I love to watch him cum. I love to look at him right after he’s done cumming. I like the noises he makes, the things he says. I like feeling his body between my legs as slightly he loses it and succumbs to the sensation of cumming. And cumming. Sometimes I almost want to laugh when he cums, because there’s something inherently funny about cumming. The noises and the motions of cumming – it’s not very serious, but I know if I laugh it might be perceived as ridicule. But, really, I laugh because I’m enjoying every moment of everything that is happening, and I’m thrilled by his dick as he squirts out cum. The beautiful cum. I made him cum. I love making him cum.

God, I would do anything to make him cum. I would make him cum all day, every day, if only he gave me the chance. I would bend over backward just to make him cum, and sometimes I do. I would crawl through dirt with half the produce section rammed up my ass if it would only make him cum. I want him to be cumming forever, here, with me, or at least fucking as furiously as we possibly can. I find a slice of my self worth in his orgasms (and also mine), and I would do anything to make him cum because I know he would do anything to make me cum, too. But enough about me, because isn’t this blog about how much I like to cum all the time? And what about him, the one who makes me cum? The one who makes me cum like crazy whenever I want? I wish that there were some way I could repay him for all the orgasms he has given me, so kindly and so patiently. I know that I will never be able to make him cum as much as he makes me cum, and I guess that is okay, because there are so many men before him (and after, too) who didn’t care nearly as much about my orgasm as he did. It was not nearly as much fun to make those men cum. It is not fun to watch a man cum, after all the work, especially if you know that your own orgasm will never be arriving any time soon. But him? He makes me cum all the time, and all I want is to do the same for him. I want to lie here forever, naked and heaving, covered in his cum and satisfied by knowing that I’m his baby and I make him cum the best out of all the rest of them, ever. If only dreams come true. One day…

When Does Sex End?

Does sex end when the guy cums? Or when the girl taps out? When do we stop fucking? I can never tell, personally, because no matter how much my body might be hurting or shutting down or dried up and desiccated, there’s something in my mind that screams, “Keep going!” Perhaps because I know that this moment will end eventually, but isn’t this everything that I have been working towards all week? Haven’t I wanted, above all other things, to be close to someone else? In the most carnal way possible. We need to keep fucking right now as an act of desperation in order to transcend our skin and our bones, and maybe if we fuck long enough and hard enough, one day we will wake up and we will no longer be separate, but we will have finally become two people in one body. Connected. Not forever, but for as long as it’s pleasant, and cumming is not symbolic of the end of everything that I am trying to achieve here. Cumming is something that I can do over and over again. I go to the gym and work out every day so that when the moment comes for me to take off my clothes and dive in, I will be awake and ready and able to fuck for as long as we need. Until we can fuck no longer. Until I can’t keep my eyes open. Until it is impossible to do this anymore. When my body is wreck and your dick is falling off. Until I can’t possibly cum one more time. Sex ends in a moment of failure, realizing that we are separate now, and we will always be separate, so we might as well sleep it off before we get up and drift apart tomorrow morning (or afternoon). Because sex doesn’t end after one person’s one orgasm, or even if he can’t get it up, or if I’m tired. Sex ends when I no longer want to be close to you, or I can no longer be close to you. Although, if I had my way, sex would never end, and we would be here forever, cycling in and out of fucking and sleeping and eating while the rest of the world melts away. I would like that. Wouldn’t you like that? To fuck me forever? I’ll call it true love, but all you have to do is call me back and come over tomorrow night. It will be wonderful. Forever.

The Fuck Feast Sexual Literacy Test

And, speaking of call backs and sexual literacy tests, here’s a list of things that I expect a man to ace on the first hook up:

  • Mastery of Attraction So, this is everything that happens before we get into the bedroom. A mastery of attraction means that you have a rudimentary understanding of the female ego, interpersonal communication and lust. A little bit of flattery, well responded to text messages, and flirtation. This is also the mastery of being attractive, so, y’know, take a shower and put on some nice shoes, okay?
  • Ability to get it up This is crucial. Look, if you can’t get it up, that’s fine. You overindulged. Or you’re nervous. Or you’re just no that into this. That’s fine. However, if you can’t get it up, why did you wheedle your way into my bedroom? Why are my clothes off if you can’t perform? I understand that we all can’t be perfect all the time, but being able to get an erection is crucial to fucking, and if you can’t do that, then you’re just not ready for this, honey, and you’re wasting my time. It’s back to the friend zone for you. Unless, of course, you make up for it with copious amounts of oral sex. That’s cool.
  • Oral Sex To be specific, cunnilingus. This is so day one. If you don’t eat pussy, then get the fuck away from me. If you don’t eat pussy, I can’t imagine what else it is that you won’t do. Eating pussy is the most basic move in the book, and if you don’t have this mastered, then who are you and what are you doing with your life?

Read more →

A Woman’s Experience of Lust Part II

There are snakes in my eyes as I slither between these sheets to wind up the leg of some new beast, slurping up sins and sensation like a newborn Eve on her first night fucking Adam. And what does it feel like to eat meat, red, raw and dripping while white blankets carry the new stains of another night in heaven. I would like to know what it feels like to be good, but I am too busy being bad to ever stop and pause and consider any other alternative option. I just let my fingers do the talking, whispering sweet nothings to the buttons at the top of your pants, singing sweet songs to your zipper as I zip and unzip and pull down and around. We both know what kind of secrets are hidden therein, all those beautiful inches upon inches of – well, inches of you. Read more →

A Woman’s Experience of Lust

Lust, which is just how I like it. But this is my lust, not yours. This is my deep, red sin, not yours. This is my experience of lust, my singular experience. I cannot vouch for your experience of lust, but I am offering you mine in the hopes that it can illuminate and accentuate your own experience of lust. To make it better. So that we can all experience lust on an elevated level, fine tuned and tingling in the night. This is my experience of lust, gnawing raw through the night, while yours might be elsewhere, sipping tea in the sunshine on a vast, grassy field. My lust is a beast, but yours…well, what is yours? Is your lust a rabbit, soft and petting, or a shark, filled with teeth? Is your lust a car that goes fast and crashes through the median? Or an explosion in a coal mine, killing everything around it? Is it blistering and bright? Yellow and pretty? Or does it skulk around, alone through rooms, looking ugly and yelling loudly?

This is my experience of lust. This is my experience of that chafing, fast emotion. It is a dangerous situation that I wade through wantonly, and you are welcome, dear spectator, to watch me stumble down. But you? Well, I expect you to experience lust in your own way, and if you would like to laugh at me while you do, please be my guest. But if anything, make sure that you experience your lust as beautifully as possible, because I certainly am.