This guy should know that whatever guy I was biking around with, well, we were probably going to either my house or his house so I could fuck the shit out of *him* and not *you*
This guy should know that whatever guy I was biking around with, well, we were probably going to either my house or his house so I could fuck the shit out of *him* and not *you*
I think the best adjective for Pilar is usually ‘enticing’. ~Alix
I think that, 7 years ago, if I had envisioned this moment that I’m experiencing right now, I would be flustered and nervous and overcome with an awkward inability to make coherent small talk. But, no, instead, here I am, standing behind the bar and looking with no longing in my eyes at some boy I went to high school with.
He’s a musician now, like he always had been, and still with those pretty green eyes of his. He seems taller to me now than he was before, and I wonder what he’s thinking of me, behind the bar, in my mini dress and high heels. To me, he looks the same now as when he was in high school, maybe a bit more stylized, though. Still kinda chubby, and for some reason, now, any inkling of attraction that I was kinda hoping to recapture has faded. Back in high school, when I used to wander the halls aimlessly, a vague memorization of where his classes were, and wanting to run into him.
I didn’t really have enough game back then to fuck that guy. Instead, I was uncomfortably filled with unfulfillable desire. Unable to make the first move and comfortable with my low self esteem. Shy, maybe. Definitely not brave. And every time he talked to me, I died a little on the inside. You know that teenage love sensation, coupled with the crushing ebb and flow of full blown puberty. I probably had pimples, which probably made me feel ugly, which was probably why I drank so much to begin with.
But things are different now. Much different. As I lean across the bar to shout clipped conversation about, “What have you been up to?” Just to hear, “Not much!”
In some narcissistic way, I’m secretly hoping that tonight he walks away with the same feeling of, “My god, I want to fuck her” that I had for him back in high school. Some insatiable bit of rage trying to induce for him the same longingness that punctured my once not stone cold heart.
At this point, I don’t even think I would fuck him even for the novelty. Instead, I just watch him walk out the door and wonder if he’s fantasizing about what it would be like, today, or even back then.
“Did you put a curse on me, Pilar?” ~ friend I was really, really mad at for like 3 days.
“No, not at all.” ~ me
I think that reasoning behind this can be justified, seeing as I am in a cult that worships death. However, let it be known, I do not practice the dark arts. Rather, if I’m mad at someone, I have the cunning, determination and rageaholic black destruction to just fucking do it. If I want to ruin someone’s life, I don’t light candles and say prayers about it. I just leave the house and get it done the right way: violently.
Hey, my birthday is 8/10, wooooo.
Amidst my early morning (read: 12:30 pm) breakfast jaunt reading the Huffington Post, I came across this “25 things I know now that I’m 25” post that almost made me hack up the rest of my half digested salad wrap and probably whatever Fernet was still sloshing around my stomach. I figured that, as an Oakland blogger, it’s pretty much my duty to bullhorn out the New Fuck City Oakland Gutteratti social agenda of slut fuckery and unrepentant drug use. So, for you enjoyment, I present:
25 Things I Know Now that I’m 25 in Oakland, CA ~ A Riff on Some Dumb Huffington Post Blog Piece
1. Dude. You pay your own rent. You’re an adult. So congratulations to you, you now have free reign to do whatever the fuck it is you want. (Although, I guess if your parents pay your rent, you must be the son – or daughter – of a total fucking tool, and, yeah, you just kinda suck.)
2. If you’re worried that you’re going to miss out on that one warehouse party on the East Side of the lake that Religious Girls is playing because your friend who’s DJing at Ruby Room promised you hella free drinks, do not fret, Religious Girls plays all the god damn time. As do Twin Steps, Antwon, Chippy, Zach G, Shannon and the Clams, Uzi Rash – or, you know, basically, every warehouse party is the same as every other warehouse party, so get those free drinks, girlfriend.
3. Never say no to anything. Because if you live in Oakland and your’e not regularly committing crimes and breaking the law, then why the fuck do you live in Oakland in the first place? Laws are jokes.
4. Say yes to the world. It’s likely that at some point, the world will say no to you, but, if you’re trying to get laid, this mentality works 80% of the time. Sexual affluence for life!
5. If you belong to some sort of “club” that isn’t just a front for committing illegal crime, then it’s time for you to move back to San Francisco.
6. You know how whenever you go over to a guy’s house and it’s just a disgusting pig sty? Well, if it’s not: WARNING SIGN. He’s probably gay or has a girlfriend or just isn’t good in bed so he has to overcompensate by putting “art” on the walls. Just sayin.
7. Getting into physical altercations with people and winning is hella fun. Next time a bitch flashes on you at a party, or is hitting on the dude you’re probably gonna fuck tonight, or you just think she’s some rich spoiled white brat, just hit her. People will come out of the wood works to be your friends and fuck you.
8. Everybody is judging you all the time. So it helps to not be fat, and as my best friend put it, “Every day when I wake up and get dressed, I just envision myself getting in a rap battle with some asshole who’s dissing my outfit. If I know that I could win this theoretical rap battle, then it’s cool, I leave the house in that outfit.” Also, it helps to derive all your self worth from the number of people you’re currently fucking.
9. Nah, on the real tho, get your ass tested for STD’s. Nobody likes STDs. Also, you’re probably too broke to have a car anyways, so biking all over Oakland while drunk at 4 am is a good way to feign exercise.
10. If you’re not having tons anal sex, you’re doing it wrong. If the dude you dragged home from the bar isn’t hitting you during sex and telling you you’re a dirty whore, next time, drag somebody new home. If it’s 6 in the morning and you’re still trying to fuck, you might want to reassess your party schedule to, “Leaving this party with this boy before he’s too drunk and coked out to fuck.” Also, get really good at giving blow jobs. It’s a skill that will serve you well in the end.
11. It’s okay that you’re broke. Everybody’s broke. Who cares.
12. Even though you’re broke, having an inordinate amount of material possessions will make you feel better about the fact that you’re broke as shit. Also, hypocritically pair that with your Occupy Oakland-esque mind state, just because absurdity is the only thing that makes sense in modern urban living.
13. Upgrade your mommy and daddy issues to “Fuck it, they give me free shit.” Seriously, though, one of my favorite manipulation techniques for people I’ve just started dating is to gauge their relationship with their mother. If that guy has mommy issues: RED FLAG. Boys with mommy issues are just insufferable, and if you’re not hustling your parents for free shit, you should probably reassess what you’re doing with your life.
14. Don’t you dare look like shit. Don’t do that to Oakland. Don’t make us look at you being frumpy and dumpy and disheveled all over our dirty streets. We will ceaselessly talk shit on you, and, you know what, even if you’re well dressed, we’re probably talking shit on you anyways, so be prepared for that.
15. If you’re a piece of shit now, you’ll always be a piece of shit. It doesn’t matter that your daddy opened up an IRA for you when you were 18, or you’re a bar tender, or you headlined that one crazy ass warehouse party, or you have a car, or you stopped doing heroin a year ago, or people come to your DJ nights, or, um, yeah. Shitty people are shitty people, and the only way to not be a shitty person is to just not be a shitty person.
16. Being selfish is something that white people do to justify their selfish life styles. If you don’t have friends that you would take a bullet for, and that you love, and that you would do anything for, then, I’m sorry, honey, your only roll on this planet is to function as another faceless cog in the consumerist capitalist American economy money game.
17. If you have a boyfriend, you’re basically just wasting a prime time for whoring around various social circles. Boyfriends are boring, and they usually don’t know how to fuck. (The only caveat here is: sugar daddies. If you have a sugar daddy, girl, you know I hella respect you already.)
18. Yet again, fuck as many people as you possibly can. It’s so much fun, and you’ll find that people who don’t do it are just all around boring and a chore to be around. I find that, personally, I peak at fucking 3 people simultaneously, because it helps stave off the boredom. Your # should be at least 35 by the time you’re 22, otherwise, you’re probably missing out on life, breh.
19. It’s okay to admit that you really want to try heroin. We all do. Of course, it’s dumb as shit and terrible drug that will ruin your life, so just keep that in mind. And if you’ve never done cocaine, then, like, what’s up, why are you partying in Oakland? Get the fuck out of here.
20. We’re all pretty drunk all the time, and then sometimes we do molly, and cocaine, and mushrooms, and, well, you know, whatever, so we tend to talk a lot. That’s okay. I’m hella high, too, and I’m really interested in what you’re saying but only because I’m waiting for you to get done talking so I can start.
21. If you don’t have one head splitting, regret filled, wild, crazy, drunken, drug fueled fuck story coming out of your party life style at least once a week, then you’re partying wrong.
22. It’s okay to admit that you’d like more money. We all do. Money is fucking awesome. Unfortunately, you’re a broke ass Oakland party freak, so the chances of you becoming fiscally successful while maintaining your alcoholic lifestyle is highly unlikely.
23. If you can’t hack it in Oakland, then you can’t hack it in Oakland. I’m sure San Francisco, aka the land of a thousand boring, insufferable, middle class white people, will take you back.
24. There is such a thing as “too old for the Oakland party scene.” C’mon, ladies, I see that you’re 32 and I see that you don’t belong here. This area is reserved for the “young, dumb and drunk” and “too emotionally crippled to function in real society” social subsets.
25. OCCUPY OAKLAND CHANGED YOUR LIFE.
~fuck and be free, forever, faggots~
incessantly indulging my narcissism…photo courtesy of Meg Abraham
“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…
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.
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:
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 →
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.