The Psychological Ramifications of Your Two Minutes of Gossip

“He’s just playing her. He knows what she wants, and he gives her just a taste before pulling away.”

My best friend was recounting a conversation that she had with another downtown fucker the night before, and the topic of that conversation was my relationship with gangsta boo. As I stood there, taking in the conversation, I felt a wave of “OMG” wash over me as I processed her report back. It occurred to me that the downtown fucker who made this bold statement about my relationship (or non-relationship) with gangsta boo may or may not know what he is talking about, mostly because this downtown fucker used to be friends with gangsta boo, and maybe he still is, but the most likely scenario here is that this downtown fucker read my blog, knows gangsta boo, and was high on cocaine, making wild accusations just for the sake of attention.

I realized this as I sat next to my best friend, trying suppress the feelings of “I AM SO FUCKING OFFENDED RIGHT NOW” beneath a veneer of “Oh. Why would he say that?”

Really, I was doing some quick mathematics in my mind as I tried to add up why exactly someone would say that about me and gangsta boo. Is gangsta boo playing me? As I let that question roil around the back of my brain, it took me about three seconds to reach over for my purse and check to make sure my wallet and credit card were still there. Yes! Yes, my money is still there! What a relief! Ah, yes, gangsta boo isn’t playing me in that sense of “playing me” because I still have all my money and I am happy to report to all you feminists out there that no, I have never paid for anything for gangsta boo ever, nor will I ever in the future! Sigh of relief. Because I’m pretty sure that if gangsta boo’s intentions were to play me, then his hand would be wrapped around my credit card at this very moment, mostly because that’s how he plays people. I’ve seen him do it before, but never to me.

Then it occurred to me, maybe this downtown fucker isn’t talking about me getting played in a financial sense, but, rather, in an emotional sense. So I put my hand over my heart, just to check, and, yup, it’s okay. Everything is fine. My heart is not broken. Still in one piece, even if it is a bit rough and worn down.

Next, I checked my phone, just to make sure that none of my other lovers have dialed in to let me know that, yes, they are aware of the side fuckery with gangsta boo and now everything has been ruined. But, no – no text messages or missed calls from disgruntled lovers lobbing accusations and hurt feelings my way. Gangsta boo and I are pretty good about that. It’s a mutual side fuckery filled with discretion and compassion.

So I started to count the other ways in which I have been played. It occurred to me that fucking with gangsta boo has put me in the green in several ways. He makes me cum a lot, I don’t have to tend to his emotions daily like a boyfriend, we never dated, we never pretended like we were going to date, and no one’s feelings have been hurt apart from that one time he choked me til my eyes bled, and I felt awkward about it because I realized the next day that maybe we should have a safe word and only engage in breath play when not high on cocaine and drunk at 7 am. But I got over that within a matter of days.

The fact of the matter is, I just don’t like it that some downtown fucker is running his mouth about me and my relationships, especially if its negative. I don’t need the negative press right now, and I certainly don’t need other people talking about my relationships, mostly because there’s a lot going on there. It’s hard to keep under wraps especially if some third party is butting in and causing chaos. I realize that maybe this downtown fucker doesn’t know what he’s talking about, but even so, on the off-off-off-chance that he does, I’m going to take a bit of time away from gangsta boo just because, well, gotta tread water and stay ahead of the drama, right? Who knows what this could be a sign of.

A Fight

I had been lightly dating someone in a non-commital fashion, you know, keeping it easy, keeping it loose. He was cool, but he knew me and we had passed each other on a couple trips around the block before, so despite my yen for discretion, he knew exactly what kind of tricks I had up my sleeve. I also knew what tricks he had up his sleeve, and one of them included getting stupid drunk and crashing at his ex’s house, which he had done last Saturday. He told me about it, which is in some ways honorable, but he also crashed at his ex’s house, which isn’t respectable in the least bit.

I had met this news with my usual icy and cruel demeanor, making rational yet cutting remarks such as, “I’ve lost a lot of respect for you.” What I wanted to say is, “This is some hoe shit!” but it sounded a little slut shame-y in my mind, and it’s not that I’m against hoe shit, or that I don’t do hoe shit, but it was definitely some hoe shit, and I’m just not in the mood to be dealing with hoe shit that isn’t just me being a hoe. The reason I know that it was some hoe shit is because I consider myself to be a bit of a master of hoe shit, so when someone else does some hoe shit to me on my watch, I know exactly what it’s about: he needs my attention. And I didn’t give it to him last Saturday night, so he did some hoe shit.

As someone who does hoe shit, I know what happens after engaging in a bunch of hoe shit: you either lie to your partner and pretend it didn’t happen because you don’t want to deal with the repercussions, or you tell your partner just to fuck with your partner because if you have a partner why are you out doing hoe shit? As someone who generally just lies about doing hoe shit all the time, I appreciated that he told me he did some hoe shit. But I also know how I’m supposed to react: I’m supposed to get really angry, threaten to never talk to him again, and then let him talk me off the ledge by buying me things. We’re supposed to get into a blow out argument so we can air our grievances and say all the mean things we’ve been thinking in the heat of the moment so that when it’s all over we can take it back.

I’m not going to do that.

Instead, I calmly and coolly let him know that I don’t respect him and that my feelings are hurt. No crying. No histrionics. No big emotions. Just rational thought and total honesty.

This is, of course, met with whining and name calling, which is only natural, but I’ve studied manipulation for years on my own time – I know how to stay above the fray and get my own shit done, too.

He says, “You don’t have to be so mean!”

I say, “I’m just trying to be honest and communicate. I’m sorry if it comes off as mean, but my feelings are hurt.”

Really, I’m thinking, “You deserve so much worse than this, but I’m not in a petty mood today, so I’m just going to give you the opportunity to fix this situation and of course you feel awful, you did something stupid and you deserve to lose me. But I’m giving you another chance.”

He says, “You just don’t care about me!” when I don’t respond quickly enough and his insecurities start to poke through.

I say, “Ummmm…this is a lot to process right now.”

Really, I’m thinking, “So do I not care or am I mean? I guess it could be both, but, wow, this guy must have a really low opinion of me if he thinks that I’m that kind of person. What did he expect, really? For me to say, “No, everything is okay!” Like some kind of push over? Like some kind of doormat girlfriend? I don’t think so! If my partner gave me a free pass after some hoe shit, I would take him for all he’s got because I’d know that he’s weak. I’m not weak.”

Instead, I’m going to let him air his grievances at me, and slowly I’ll start to decide: do I just let this rot, or do I put in the time and effort to fix it. Is it worth fixing? Or is this just a loss over some hoe shit. Should I just go back to the fuck boy I dumped last week and pursue sexual lovelessness with him instead? Or do I realize that he’s insecure about the fact that I’m not paying enough attention to him, and maybe I should consider fixing that because I shouldn’t neglect my lovers. It makes things messy.

I sit there and stare at my phone, and then I realize that this is better talked about in person. It’s harder to be mean when you look someone in the eyes, which is good for me because I’m a huge fan of fatal one liners. So I text it in, shut it down, and wait for all of this to pass before I meet him in downtown tomorrow morning to drink coffee and feel bashful while admitting to the wrongs that we’ve done. Who knows what will happen then.

An Interruption

I’m holed up in my room writing when the knock comes on the door.


For the most part when people try to talk to me when I’m writing, I give the ultimate brush off because I like writing more than I like masturbating at this point in time, and it’s a very private process, and I would like to be left alone. But for some reason people feel entitled to my time. Despite the fact that I have spent all of the rest of today and all of the rest of tomorrow and most of my life doing other things for other people, and despite the fact that wanting these thirty minutes to myself is completely rational because I would like to escape the psychic influences of the rest of the world for just right now – I’m busy, I’m doing something. But that doesn’t stop it. Always barging in. Always interrupting. I understand that other people need my time and my attention and my validation in order to feel good about themselves, but I also understand that it’s not me in particular that they need that from, it’s just that I’m in physical proximity and easy prey for their ego needs. Oh, cool. All I want is right now to myself, but I can’t have it, and I know that it is slowly destroying me to have to put my writing on hold so I can cater to the needs of other people for another five to ten minutes. Help.

The Petty Files, Day 2788

I had just broken up with the fuck boy du jour via text message when I engaged in my usual post “break up” (not a break up, we weren’t together, it doesn’t count) tradition: drinking. Although, if I’m being honest, drinking is traditional in pretty much every moment of my life, so maybe that’s a bit tawdry. But, anyways. As I was sitting there drinking, doing a bit of phone deletion to cover up the mistakes from the past two months, I decided that it was a good time to engage in one more round of nostalgia: social media stalking. As a properly discreet young woman, I tend to unfollow or not even begin following the people that I canoodle with behind closed doors. If it’s not a real relationship, then that means I’m probably not interested in what he’s doing with the rest of his time, or who he hangs out with, or where he works, or where he’s from – you know, basic social information like that. Although, admittedly, if I’m fucking someone, I do keep tabs. I just do it on my own time, in my own way, and try to avoid having pictures of yesterday’s dick pop up in my timeline when I don’t want to see it.

So as I typed in his username on Instagram, a few drinks in and a few hours post-break up, and what do I see as soon as his page pops up? Ah, yes – another woman. As usual, but in a moment of flush and rage, I look at the time stamp and see: he seriously posted a picture of another woman (who, let’s be honest, looks a lot like me) within an hour of our text message break up. Which makes me wonder: had he been sitting on this the whole time? Or is this his version of childish shenanigans?

The reason I dumped him was because we hadn’t spoken in a week, and I had left for Mexico, and despite being just casual I thought that we had a more solid foundation than that. In this particular scenario, the friendship was a major component of the entire sexual affair, and not talking for a week was uncommon for us. But also because I knew in my heart of hearts that no matter how much I like fucking him, we are terrible lovers but such great friends. After a week had passed, I figured he was fucking someone else (which didn’t bother me, because I was, too), and that this was an ideal time to call it a wrap. It felt mature. It felt honest.

However, looking at the picture of the other woman, I realized: this will never be mature, and this will never be honest. We can be just friends, and we can fuck each other, and we can fuck other people, and we can be honest, or we can lie, but at the end of the day, he’s posting other women on Instagram within minutes of breaking up. He’s didn’t tell me that he’s seeing someone else, nor is it a guarantee that this woman is someone he’s fucking or dating. I mean, I know her, so I could as her myself, but that’s just the trap, isn’t it? The point of this, and the point of being so petty isn’t that there’s some grand sense of relief or release that will come at the end of this, that we’ll make up and finally treat each other well. It doesn’t matter if he’s fucking her, or if she’s his girlfriend, or if he just knows that I know her and will feel that sudden rush of oh my god. Although, he probably doesn’t know that this is how I feel. He’s probably just doing this because…

Well, I’ll never know, so I’m just going to put down my phone, take a sip from my drink, and flirt with the first person who will indulge me in a much needed post break up ego boost that will ultimately lead to me sobering up after a few bars of conversation, realizing I’m better than this, and leaving without paying.

How To Be My #1 Boo

It had been about twenty minutes of this thick Mexican guy telling me that he was down to fuck me and eat me out and let me suck his dick in the bathroom before I lost interest and got lost in my phone. Yeah, I know, I know, twenty minutes is a long time to let some slobbering fuck be sexist and condescending, but, for all my feminist readers out there, I just want to let you know that this was a professional connection, so in the spirit of professionalism I let him tell me everything he was going to do to me when he got the chance and then yawned in his face. I kinda like the sport of emasculation, mostly because I win every time, but also because I get a lot of free food and drink and cab rides out of it.

Now, on this particular occasion, I found myself texting one of my favorite boos while said bartender professional was telling me about the size of his dick. This was fine, and I was texting boo #1, I turned to him and said, “Are you looking at my text messages?” (Spoiler alert: this is a trap.)

“What, huh, um, yeah, who are you texting?” he said, taking the bait.

“Someone with a really big dick.”

“Oh, yeah? I bet it’s not bigger than mine.”

“Oh, yeah? Wanna take a look?” At which point I resort to my nifty new trick of showing off #1 boo’s dick pics. Now, I must admit that #1 boo has a beautiful penis. He wouldn’t be #1 boo if he didn’t have a beautiful penis, and lucky for me he’s proud of his penis and he loves and he loves showing it to me. And I love looking.

At this point, I’m showing industry asshole pictures of #1 boo’s penis. Just cuz. But also cuz #1 boo’s dick will put any other dude’s dick to shame, and also #1 boo is hot, and #1 boo has a nice bod. So I’m sitting there, scrolling through various dick pics (and also the occasional titty pic of me cuz that’s what’s in our feed) when I decide that maybe I should cut this guy some slack. He probably wasn’t prepared to look at the prime meat of East Bay, California when he walked into this bar tonight. He probably thought he was going to hit on a pretty girl who was shy or insecure or interested in fucking him.

That didn’t happen.

Within a few moments, the conversation devolves into mere grunts on his end, and I take it as cue to leave. I hoof it ten blocks through the Mission, feeling just fine, and I text #1 boo to tell him about our little victory.

Did he like it?


And this, ladies and gentlemen, is why #1 boo is #1 boo. Because over the last however many years of dating, I have asked man after man after man to send me dick pics. None of them ever do, mostly because I suspect that they suspect that I’m going to post them on the Internet and show all my friends. But they’re wrong. Yeah, I’ll show all my friends, but if you’re fucking me you should be proud of what you’re packing and know by now that my friends already know what your dick tastes like.

And #1 boo is not afraid of letting other men see his dick. #1 boo wants other men to like his dick, and also #1 boo knows that other men aren’t going to like his dick because his dick is too big (their words, not mine). #1 boo knows he has a beautiful penis, and #1 boo isn’t upset that I show other men his beautiful penis because it’s fucking beautiful and I’m not the idiot who hides beauty from the rest of the world. #1 boo also knows I don’t fuck around like that, but sometimes I want free shit, and he’s not around so that’s fine. #1 boo knows that his dick is nice enough that I don’t need other dick, and as I’m BARTing it back to the East Bay we’re yucking it up about the look on that asshole’s face when he saw #1 boo’s dick. I’ll treasure that forever, and I’ll also treasure #1 boo’s dick forever, or at least this dick pic, because dick pics last forever, even if orgasms come and go. But they definitely come when #1 boo is around.

So, San Diego Part II

After two hours of sleep and being up all night fucking, I piled into the back of the BART train and onto a plane and into San Diego, arriving somewhere around 2pm. I was exhausted, but in a good way, and ready to start partying even though I guess I technically never stopped seeing as 5am was about the last time that I had a drink, and after sleeping on the plane, 2pm felt like a good wake up call. My friends were, of course, very cordial as I slumped around their city, making requests for San Diego margaritas and other general fuckery. This bar, that bar, old friends, new friends. I was happy to go to sleep at midnight after cabbing it back from some San Diego dive bar that had the same amount of charm as I would expect from an Oakland dive bar, except more Mexicans. That’s the thing about San Diego: as much as I love Oakland, and my people, and I kick it downtown, there are always more Mexicans in San Diego. Maybe it’s a proximity thing.

The next day was Tijuana, which, if you know me, you know I love Tijuana. For a myriad of reasons. My friends half way grew up there, so after the first few trips to Tijuana wherein I bought every chintzy piece of Mexican crap I could carry over the border, I’ve grown a certain fondness for the more pedestrian parts of Tijuana. Sure, Ave Revo is fun, but so is las playas and getting lost in the dark and going to various bars. Today’s trip, however, was in the name of the Tijuana Zine Fest, in its first year, and located on a dusty, open corner next to (of course) a Mexican banh mi shop. Tourism is for the birds, but sitting at a booth at a zine fest slanging zines to people who speak both English and Spanish, and pay in either dollars or pesos feels a lot more real. Just so you know, I was charging dollars for my zines (of which I sold five and traded four), mostly because I can process dollars pretty easily, but pesos is a little trickier.

Being at the zine fest consisted of drinking beer (lots of it), trying to stay cool in the shade (very hard, it was 80 degrees), and hobknobbing with the young and pretty DIY crowd of mostly Tijuana but also San Diego and other random, convenient locations. I guess it had never occurred to me that Tijuana, like Oakland, would have a seething and seductive art class that was committed to things like “FTP” and also elaborately beautiful drawings and photographs of their complicated and pretty friends and lives. Or, rather, I knew they were there, I just never knew that I would find them so easily and be so thrilled to be a part of it. Because that’s what struck me about these Mexican hipsters, wandering around, clutching zines, smoking weed, speaking in a mix of English and Spanish and wrath, swaddled in cute vintage garb that would leave any Bay Area hipster yearning for another go at a thrift shop in order to find a shirt exactly like that one – they are all so fucking cool. In a way that made me feel like, “I hope these people like me!” even though I’m pretty much a self absorbed, over confident narcissist.

They were all very nice to me, all the pretty girls who looked like a Tumblr feed come to life with their semi-goth, semi-Selena look, and the boys who were perfecting a mix of anarchic insouciance and vintage flare. Their bands played, the DJs blared oldies, everyone milled around in a pleasant way that can only be ascribed to an empty lot in Tijuana. Then my friends and I fled to get food at a divey but bright taco joint over by the stadium, and then to the bars to float in and out of a bar that I wish were my home, with its three different rooms with three different DJs, and the mezcals, and the skin of so many people in their shorts and their tank tops, unaffected by the glitter of high fashion magazines but still definitely hell bent on getting fucked up beyond belief and dancing all night. Which basically means that every song was the anthem of the night, even if the music trends in Tijuana lean more towards gay club speed bangers and less the polished hip hop that I prefer out in Oakland. But isn’t Tijuana beautiful. Everyone is doing drugs. Because that is what people do out at clubs in Tijuana. It’s not about drinking. It’s drugs. All of them, for everyone, in a very democratic manner. This isn’t the snobbery of Bay Area well-to-dos who look down on girls in short skirts snorting blow in the bathroom. Everyone here is doing it, and it’s different when that kind of drug culture is absolutely normalized. Not in the way that some clubs are okay with it in San Francisco, but in the “people snort drugs like Americans drink booze” kind of normal. Talk about cool.

And the bar with its mezcal poured out of unmarked plastic water bottles, the unassuming folding chairs in a blue room with lights covered in cheese graters and glowing sacred hearts on the wall. The dance room with its slightly too narrow booths and the dance floor that lit up like a bop it as people heaved and swayed. The back area, with its taco trucks and wild eyed revelers in skin tight clothing and high, high heels. Wandering around Revo looking for beer at 2am, tripping around.

After which we started the long journey home, still buzzing over the border and crammed in the back of some car. It was after three hours of sitting in line to get back home and eight cars away from the border when we ran out of gas, which meant that at about 5am we were pushing our car filled with slutty zines and folding chairs back into America. A near run in meant we almost got completely searched, but due to the grace of god we made back into America and filled up our tank with gas before heading home and hitting the hay an hour later.

I didn’t have high hopes for the next day after four hours of sleep, so we committed ourselves to eating too much and drinking at the veteran’s bar all day long. Micheladas and horchatas and tequila sodas all damn day. Sitting in some dive on the strip in Barrio Logan, singing karaoke, playing pool. General hooliganism with our bad attitudes and beautiful smiles.

The next day was leaving, although not after a short trip to the thrift stores to rack up more clothes and buy tacky souvenirs. At which point it was back home, away from Mexico, away from carefree drinking all day, and back to the land of mean cab drivers and dead phones and unshipped packages and messy rooms and undone laundry. I can’t tell if I love San Diego because every time I’m there, I have no responsibilities, or if it’s because I truly love it.

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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.