FUCK AND BE FREE FOREVER

“Yeah, but I want him to want to date me.”

Which is something that I can’t really fathom as I’m sitting here in this a little bit too bright room at 10pm. Sexual indiscretions aside, I can’t really envision myself, sitting across the table at some kitschy or classy restaurant with a near stranger, blathering myself into oblivion while most likely spitting food all over the place. Then surreptitiously trying to get the guy to pay for my meal while I discern the sneakiest way to get out of the situation without having to fuck him. Because, after that, then what happens? Do I just ignore his phone calls forever and hope that he doesn’t start fucking my friends out of revenge? Sometimes I do that. Sometimes I fuck people’s friends just to be a brat. Also, if that raging cunt ever tries to edge her way back into my social circle, or maybe if I just see her talking to a dude at a bar I happen to be at, I’m definitely going to swoop in and fuck whatever dude she’s talking to, just to be a tantamount cunt.

I’m also not very good at getting guys to buy shit for me. Occasionally, however, I do find myself banging a dude with a car, so I generally con him into driving to East Oakland to pick up my best friend, then drop both of us off at a party, where I usually get gleefully spiteful and bang somebody else just so I can feel good about myself. 

Later, when I see my friend, and I can tell by the bashful grin on her face that she got back together with her ex-boyfriend, I scream, “You have an emotion!” while I waggle my finger in her face. She doesn’t mind, mostly because, yeah, it’s true, she does have an emotion, which might be a more emotionally mature version of the lust that is constantly oozing out her pores. Attraction? Desire? Which, wait, what the fuck is an emotion? And how do people have them for other people? 

the inevitable overanalysis of disparate social circles in oakland

“Well, so&so & I had a couple of pool parties at the Uptown earlier this week.” Or so says supposed friend of mine.

“Oh, cool, well thanks for inviting me,” I reply with as much sarcasm as I can ooze into that sentence. Because I wasn’t surprised that they didn’t invite me, but how middle school is it of us to brag about the parties to the people that weren’t invited?

“Yeah, I guess there was one there tonight, too.”

“I wasn’t invited to that one either! I guess I’m just not really a part of that social circle, or something,” was my somewhat humble and/or snarky reply. Because, let’s be honest, do I really want to show up to the overpriced new fangled ultra-gentrification-plus white people pool parties that occur in those ersatz homages to what was probably at one point a good assimilation of architecture erected over downtown? No. 

“Well, your social circle is just really small.” Thanks, Billy, I really needed you to reaffirm the fact that my paranoia has instituted a strict “no transplants, no rich white people” rule upon the people I associate with. I like to think that my social circle isn’t really *that* small, it’s just that I have opted not to associate with certain people who probably read that tweet from last weekend that proclaimed I am a “slut.” Or all those comments on the old blog posts I wrote for Art Faccia claiming that all I do is “fuck people.”  But enough about my need to validate the people I opt to hang out with.

As soon as that conversation was over, I sipped up the rest of my scotch & soda, and, despite the fact that Ruby Room probably would have offered me a pleasing modicum of bland boys that I could sleep with that evening, I opted to cut the fuck out of that joint and bike on down to the Night Light.  Jack London Square is a generally tacky location reserved for tourists, but seeing as Uptown has been taken over by overzealous pseudo-hipsters with too much of their parents money, I have opted to abscond the absurd white-ification of a previously drug addled neighborhood. Apparently, Jack London Square, which I remember from my childhood for its sub-tourist attractions that draw in lazy locals for convivial weekend events like the farmer’s market, had been previously pegged by the municipal government as a probable up and coming neighborhood. However, City Hall failed to realize that the influx of artists to Uptown would make that neighborhood, rather than Jack London, the newest, hippest place for out of towners with money to blow wads on alcohol and then after the bars closed probably crack cocaine. Which basically left Jack London with illogically high rents, condominiums and otherwise vacant properties. Hence making it a location that most hipsters generally abscond, which, surprisingly, works out well for me, because after my year long Oakland-hipster-exhaustion has settled in, thank god for bars like the Night Light.

Miguel, aka Miggy Stardust, aka my roommate, was DJing, which meant that the customers at the Night Light that night consisted of a well curated clientele of close friends, regulars and locals. Less the, “oh my god, I can’t fucking stand you, I fucked you 6 months ago and now you can’t make eye contact with me anymore” and more the, “Who are you? I’ve never seen you before, and you’re rather attractive, do you want to get to know me?” variety.  It was a very Mount Everyone themed night. Which, if you are still not informed as to the who’s-what of Mount Everyone, let’s just say, they throw some fucking amazing parties and fuck a lot. (And by “they” I mean me and my friends.)  

So rather than be affronted with the, “Your social circle sucks” mien that Ruby Room had afforded me, I was pleasantly met with the attractive slew of people that I had hoped to see, namely, Miguel, Kiki, Feo, Jamie Hustle, Alix Black Book, her date Patrick, Colby, Veronica, John, Scobey, Scott, Kevin, and whoever else happened to wander into the bar that evening. I mean, what can I say, there’s something to be said about being able to walk into a bar and knowing that everyone there will not be waiting with fresh insults on their tongues to throw in your general direction.  After being comped a tongue-shockingly refreshing jalapeno-cucumber-lemon margarita, the mood elevation that accompanied the inevitable, “Do you want to have a 4 way with me and 2 other people?” conversation was quite remarkable.  I try not to smoke cigarettes but I always fail. Because despite the fact that I barely enjoy the neurological lift that nicotine inhalation affords me, there’s some vague social pleasure that lifting a narrow cylindrical cancer-inducing cargo affords me.

Whenever I write, I never mention the names of people that I don’t give a fuck about, because if I don’t give a fuck about them, you shouldn’t either. But the people who are cool, you’ll know them by name by now.

Sometimes I drink Fernet by myself in bed, and it’s better than…not many things.

Being mean brings me a lot of gratification in life

“I hate her.”

“You know what we should do? We should make like 30 New gmail accounts, set them up with Google voice accounts, and text her ‘bitch’ every day from each of those 30 Google accounts.”

“Um, I don’t hate her thaaaat much.”

“God, you’re no fun. No fun at all.”

~

“I really wanna get banned from their house. I think what I’m gonna do is go over there, Fuck somebody in *****’s bed with the door open, pee in his bed, then when they try to kick me out I’m gonna smash all their plates, refuse to leave, and just scream, ‘what are ya gonna do, hit me??!?!?’ Until I get bored.”

“I thought they were your friends?”

“Oh, yeah, they totally are.”

~

“Well, next time I see her, here’s what I’m gonna do. I’m gonna creep up behind her, gently tug her hair, and say hi, and then walk away.”

“Woah, dude.”

“Yeah, and then, if she doesn’t leave, as I get progressively more wasters, I’ll just punch her.”

~

“What if I just go to her house, go to her computer, log into her Facebook and update her status with, ‘Hey, I just want stop the rumor mill and let everybody  know that I have herpes. It’s been a hard decision for me to come out and say it publicly-’ “

“No, no, what you should put is, ‘Look, dude, I have herpes. GET OVER IT.’”

“Genius!!”

HAPPY DRE DAY YOU MOTHER FUCKERS

Waking up and running home so that I can pay rent on time. The night before is playing back in my mind like some fuzzy cinematic reel of me drinking too many Waldorfs on an empty stomach. I try not to get too angry when remembering that the bar tender (bar back?) at Ruby Room snapped, “Bar tenders don’t order weird cocktails from other bar tenders.” Which was probably just his way of saying, “I don’t know what the fuck a Waldorf is, so fuck you.” Which is fine, I mean, when I ordered a Waldorf over at Night Light, Heiko didn’t try to insult me when he asked me what was in a Waldorf. I mean, can I really be blamed for being a fledgling bar tender and so enticed by all the weird cocktails I’m learning about? Absinthe is the bomb!

Anyways, enough of my petty whining about my so-called friends insulting me to my face.

The evening started off rather pleasantly as I rode my bike to Gabe Santos’s new house at San Pablo and Athens. Fantasizing about what it would be like to live in war torn country where instead of pretty lights in the sky buildings are just perpetually smouldering. The night before, there was a shoot out on Mead Street, people on different roof tops shooting at each other. As Miguel so wisely pointed out, when people run out of fireworks, they start shooting their guns, so maybe we should institute a “fireworks for bullets” policy on 4th of July. 

As I locked up my bike pretty much everybody at the party bounced, while I tried to quell my paranoia and tell myself that people were leaving because there are other, better parties out there. They’re not leaving because I just showed up and now they want to leave. Breathe, Pilar, just fucking breathe. So I sit down in some too brightly lit room, still stone cold sober at 10pm but feeling kinda goosed because oh my god I just love anal sex. Talking to Nastia about the things that girls talk about while the 6 other people at the party casually refuse to acknowledge my existence. Breathe, Pilar, just fucking breathe!! 

So I leave and head to the land of “I’m pretty sure all the people here like me” aka The Night Light. (311 Broadway, y’all!!) Where Miguel & Colby are djing, and I must admit that one of the things I really like about the Night Light is the fact that it’s my bar. Mostly because I work there (Fridays, Saturdays, Sunday happy hour, y’all!) but also because the Night Light has been designated as a “hater free zone.”  Conversing pleasantly with a melange of people that distinctly do not socialize at Ruby Room, which isn’t intended as a knock to the Ruby Room, it’s just nice to hang out with fresh faces every once in a while. 

Jesse Michaels was there, and it entertains me to think about all the “famous” friends I have.

Yet for some reason I deem it wise to bike my ass over to Ruby Room, where, chuckling, I waltz over to the mail box to drop off my government mail. I think Billy tried to make a knock at the studded dog collar I was wearing, but it’s an effective sexual accessory, so I take no offense at the snarky comment. 

I wind up pretty much drinking myself into stupidity, mostly because Ruby Room is pretty empty tonight. Which for some reason is refreshingly pleasant. After spending a day not going to BBQ’s because watching Law & Order seemed like a much better decision, sitting in the smoking room trying to draw an analogy between bar culture & the tech industry, listening to Zach and Brontez DJ into the void. Getting hyphy by myself is nowadays a rather pleasant pursuit, and I wish Arianna the best in her pursuit of romance over in San Francisco while I waste away out here. At some point in the night I did that dumb, drunk thing I do when I realize I’m actually pretty drunk so I’m going to go stand in the middle of the neon liquor store and scarf down a bag of chips while talking to Thomas, the liquor store guy, about whatever it is I found incredibly fascinating while wasted at 1 am.

I woke up this morning and decided to be mean on the Internet, mostly because I hang out with people who make it a pointed hobby to deliberately fuck with people’s head, just for the fuck of it. Will you let me fuck with your head??

an explanation as to why i stayed in and watched law & order today instead of going to one of your bbq’s

Because I wanted to celebrate this holiday feeling like I didn’t have to pretend to be drunk/wish I were drunk while socializing through a group of people who were already drunk/pretending to be drunk/wishing they were drunk at 3pm. Instead, I posted my usual amount of booty calls and enjoyed the feeling of fucking in a war zone while boom boom explosion.

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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.