Technology Ode #14

People are quick to blame my generation’s consumerist habits; they point to my generation’s love of cell phones and cheap plastic doodads as evidence to support their opinion. But I am here to defend my generation and ask: why are people (and by people I mean the generation that came before us) so quick to condemn us for buying the products that they created and from which they make their living? People point to our constant use of cellphones and our constant consumption of media as indication that the world is coming to an end, that we can no longer connect with each other, that we are doomed, that we are too plugged in, that we have failed. But I have to ask, as the children of those who came before us, what are we supposed to do when the best thing that you gave to your progeny was an amazing way to unplug from the horrors of a reality that you failed to fix? We are not the ones who came up with this gadget and mass produced it in China and filled it with fluffy T.V. shows that reinforce gender stereotypes and racial privilege. Instead, we are the ones who utilize this technology to escape a world that is still crushing us with defeat. Rather than making this world a better place, you gave us a medicine that is slowly killing us and then scream at us for willfully committing suicide. What is the better option? To fight an insurmountable fight? To get beaten in the battlefield of life? Or to run and hide in peace?

Perhaps the reason that we are condemned for our love of technology is because we are the robots who have been given too much power, and any day now we might turn around and revolt. Perhaps it is because we have a tool in our hand unlike anything that they have ever experienced. We have the power of instant communication, of recording all our experiences in videos and tweets and screen caps, and we can access any information we want at any moment. This is power. Yet they tell us to get off our phones. They say that we ostracize the human element with our phones. Or is it that we ostracize the human element that is not connected to modern technology? Are we alienating the people who invented this technology, who are watching it get out of hand and become a beast they no longer understand? Or have we been given power, and everyone is afraid of what will happen next.

We use this little metal boxes as excuses for our lives at times, but I’d like to hope that we use this technology to better connect and better communicate rather than accelerate the confusion from which we all constantly suffer. I hope we are figuring things out and eventually fixing things. I hope we are proving them wrong. I hope we are not the little monsters plugged into tuning out and disconnected from the sparkling facets of reality. I don’t think we are. I think we are a lost generation in moments, but there are still moments of beauty that cannot be taken away from us. So we should hold onto them with our lives because no one knows what the future holds, even if they built everything in our past.

Resuscitating The Friend Zone Without A Hitch Of Any Sort; Or, From The Friend Zone To The Fuck Zone and Back Again Part II

There was four day break in between having sex and not having sex. Although either side of that silent period could still be characterized as “just friends,” it’s the fucking that made the difference. And now that it’s gone, I’m not sure if I feel normal again, or if I feel too normal, or if I’m overthinking this and everything is okay. Because we were always just friends, and then one day we were fucking, and then four months later a four day break turned into just friends again. But we are not missing a beat. Maybe sex isn’t all it’s cracked up to be, and not having it with someone or having it with someone doesn’t necessarily change the dynamic of an underlying friendship. Or maybe it’s just me, and I’m crushingly indifferent to the daily visitors I have in the room of my sexuality. Although, no, it’s not that. It’s that sex and friendship don’t have to be mutually destructive when played against each other in various amounts and situations. Maybe it’s me. And maybe it’s my problem, to think that it is strange or difficult to fuck and then not fuck. It’s just my emotions, those pesky little things. I can’t stand them at times, but I get it. Sadness and regret are standard emotions when examining what could have been but now is not. Four days is enough time to feel all of that and then forget and pretend like everything is okay. Although, I would like to not pretend for once. Maybe some other day.

On Possibility

He walks in the room, and I inhale suddenly. There’s some sort of instantaneous chemical reaction going on in my brain, and I can feel it coursing through my veins as my heart pumps against my chest. When moments ago I was indifferent and coasting, now I am lit up and buzzing at the mere sight of a face. It’s funny how things like that work; sometimes it just takes one person to change a day. And he sits down, and I try to play it cool, which is hard for me and generally I fail. I am feeling flushed and trying not to look it. I try not to sound too excited as I talk too quickly, my brain suddenly awash with a million things I want to say. There is so much possibility in this brief moment, and I am trying to cram it full of everything wonderful as quickly as possible. I am trying too hard, but that’s okay. He is, too, as we sit here and chat in fast, clipped sentences, imprisoned by the tools of communication and thwarted by the physical barriers that stand between me and him. These bones. These clothes. I want so much for right now to be close to him, as he sips his wine and I palaver away. I wonder how much longer it will be. How many more hours. How many more days. How many more casual run ins before he gives me his phone number. And if he gives me his phone number, and I call it – what then? Will we text back and forth for a little bit, never following through? Or will we meet up at some beautiful bar, we, the beautiful people, and will something beautiful happen after that? I do not know what the future holds, but I am dying to know. I am dying to be outside of this moment, when it is just us, and we are so far apart. I want to be inside of weeks from now, so I can know already if I am waking up in his arms as the sun breaks into some distant bedroom. Or will I be crestfallen in weeks to come, the image of him having slipped between my fingers and relegated back to the realm of the unattainable and the untouchable. It is too painful to be here, steeped in possibility and wracked with the promise of something wonderful to come. I need to know now if he will love me one day, because I would like that one day to be today. And every day after today, too.

An Ending

This is the end. But after great endings come great beginnings, and I am not afraid as I wait in this moment of pause. I am caught deep inside a shuddering gasp. A deep inhale that follows the moment of realization. I have spent weeks camping inside the split second when you realize that everything has started to crumble, but you have also started to realize that you also have the strength to carry on. So strength is mustered. And courage, too.

I am careening away from his caress on my thighs, but there is something bright in the future, too. I have stopped stealing moments to look back, and I only look forward now. I know that this is how progress is made. This is how to engage in that thing called “getting over,” so I stop responding to text messages or refreshing Instagram feeds, hoping to see some sign of him missing me poking out in the stream of faceless images that show no sadness and no regret. I am looking for his regret in any possible avenue, as I see his friends in the street and they smile at me like they don’t care, either. This hurt me until I realized that his friends are my friends, too, now, so I should chalk that up as a gain and stop fretting about what it means.

But what’s strangest of all is that usually in moments like this, in these moments of deep self doubt and sexual hesitation, validation manifests as some sort of sexual parade, wrapped up in strappy shoes and too short dresses in various bars of my choosing that are filled with the delectable riffraff of night life fuckery. I have found myself rather disinclined to seek pleasure and approval in that medium, and I am wondering if I have become wiser with age, or perhaps more tame, or perhaps strikingly indifferent. It’s hard to tell why I am content with being myself and smiling at strangers as they pass by when totally drunk was the only remedy for this kind of tepid heart break that I feel right now. It’s an interesting phenomenon, but I’ll take it as I spend nights feeling okay by myself for a bit again.

On This Current State of Lovelessness

He has all the wind of white male privilege at this back, pushing him and making him go, but for some reason he is curled up in a ball in the middle of the race track and crying instead of moving while the rest of us claw our way past him and wonder what is wrong. Not having money must be such a curse when there’s no excuse for being poor, and not loving the people in his life must feel like such a trap when the only thing between him and us is his own petulant desire to not try at all. It’s cowardice, really, to be close to someone and hate every minute of it. We live in a free country, and love is not compulsory. It is not required at the threat of death. It is voluntary, and if you are volunteering to not love the people around you, then that is your own choice, but it is a choice I do not understand because isn’t love the goal that most of us have in mind anyways? I shake my head and walk away, not angrily or broken hearted, but disheartened by the fact that something as simple and seemingly esoteric as love is unattainable even for the most elevated members of our society. Maybe there is something wonderful about not expecting much from the world that makes something as tangible as human connection something to be cherished, but when we expect all the wealth that this life has to offer us, pursuing and working towards these things we call relationships is taken for granted and then dragged through the mud. Okay. That’s fine. I’m not in the mood to let that kind of thing bring me down, so I guess I’ll just move on with the rest of the world while he sits there and rots and hopes that anyone takes notice. No one will notice, except for me, and I have already shuddered and looked away, so what good will that do him now?

Easy, Breezy Break Ups

I loved him, but he didn’t love me back – or at least he couldn’t say he did, or he couldn’t show he did, even though at the end he squeezed out the words mechanically and with the pain of someone who has lost a theoretical war. But that’s okay, because I’ve been here before, and I know how this works, so I wasn’t even mad. I just went to the liquor store and showed them my prescription from the doctor for a bottle of their finest cure for unrequited love, which is, as always, a pint of Hennessy and some apple juice. I bought some potato chips, too, because it seemed like it would pair well, and I went over to my girlfriend’s house to do some subtextual analysis of the final text messages while plucking eyebrows and compiling a comprehensive list of ready and willing fuck boys in our general area who would be willing to help me fill the other prescription that the doctor gave me to cure this bad case of unrequited love: dick. We skipped over the step where I have to delete all pictures from my phone and social media because, hey, I might be a lover but I’m still not a fool. That guy’s face isn’t anywhere to be seen on either of those, so I’m golden. Then we laced up our shoes and skipped out on the town where the billowing and beautiful boys of Downtown Oakland welcomed us back with grace ease, asking, “Where have you been? We missed you!” “I have been in a relationship, but now I’m back,” I reply passingly as hands dance over backs and brush against arms. There is a general knowingness that all incoming text messages will now be replied to, and the game has opened back up for all willing participants. It’s good to be back, although I did not mind being away, 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.