a little something about penises

I imagine that when the clock struck midnight, Cinderella took off her high heels and came down to Oakland to party with all of us in the gutter. 

Okay. Just gonna say it. Fuck it, holmes. When a dude comes too fast, it is the most disappointing thing in the world. Like, keep it in there for than 2 minutes, okay? I always feel just…disgusting. I feel used. I feel like saying, “Why did you need me here in the first place? Why didn’t you just masturbate instead?” Although – no. That’s kinda a lie. What I really want to say when that happens is the meanest shit that pops into my head, something along the lines of, “You are a worthless piece of shit that doesn’t know how to fuck.” How long does it take before a dude becomes good at fucking? Or maybe it’s just something that some dudes never learn how to do.

For me, if it doesn’t last long enough to go through two or three different positions, like, what the fuck are you doing? Although, I guess this comes with the caveat of “if I’m fucking somebody I’m into.” If I realize half way into it that I don’t really like the dude, sure, come as fast as you want. In fact, the sooner the better! But if I’m into a dude, and it just sucks…well, it just went from “oo, you’re cute, I kinda have a crush on you” to “please don’t ever talk to me ever again.” That’s really what bad sex does for me – it makes me fucking hate the dude. Aren’t we supposed to be having an enjoyable experience together? But no. I might as well be a blow up doll if you’re seriously going to crawl on top of me, fuck me in missionary position for 2 minutes, and then. Nothing. Or, even worse, “Oops, sorry.” A good response to which would be, “You should be more sorry that I never want to fuck you again.” 

Part of me wonders if there are girls out there who actually enjoy 2 minute sex. Or get off on 2 minute sex. Sure, if you’re a sexophobic female, I’m sure that 2 minute sex every once in a while is more than enough. But is there a girl out there who comes hella hard from 2 minutes of choad fucking? Or, rather, why do dudes think it’s okay to fuck a girl for just 2 minutes? At some point in their life did some idiot girl give them affirmation for the poor sexual performance? (I hate her, btw.) 

I guess the thing is, if I come too fast (which rarely happens), it’s no big deal. Seriously, a dude can keep fucking me and it’s not like I’m not going to enjoy it. But if you’re a dude…well. That sucks. And it’s not like any dude ever has the courtesy to be like, “Oh, sorry, let me go down on you until you come.” I guess I would respect that. A lot, actually. Instead of just standing up and running away to the bathroom, where I hope to God that you are standing in a shroud of your own shame, be courteous! I’m not asking for a wedding ring, dude, I’m asking for some oral sex. 

And on that note, if you’ve never seen a girl come before, I hate your fucking guts. 

Also, just for the record, I want everybody here to know that I love vaginas. They are so awesome, and I am stoked to be the proud owner of one. Join me in my love for vaginas, and the next time you see one, give it a high five or tell it how much you appreciate it.

I’m out!

(P.S. If you think this is about you, it’s not, unless, of course, it is.)

And now, on a super personal note…

“Do you have kids?”

“No.”

“Miscarriage?”

“No.”

“Have you ever had an abortion?”

“No.”

Standing inside a botanica on 23rd Street in Richmond while the man behind the counter looks at my hands. Although looking is a bit of an understatement. It’s more like he’s examining an ancient artifact, twisting and turning his head, stepping back, stroking the lines of my palms while the backs of my hands lie flat on the glass case. 

“Do you want kids?”

“No, not really.”

“Oh, because it will be very hard for you to have kids.”

Later, when I’m headcasing about the things that he said to me, Miguel tells me that it’s probably just that I’ve been on birth control for the last 6 years, and that’s the energy that he was picking up on. I guess, at the age of 24, it’s kinda unsettling to have a perfect stranger tell me that I’m barren, and then to know that he’s right. Granted, I have never felt the urge to grow another human person inside of my body, but, as a woman, it’s kinda…well, I don’t want to get grotesquely self pitying here, but the wonderful thing about being a woman is knowing that I am the progenitor of the human race.

One of the items on my to do list is “Make a stencil with “Welcome to the Chapel of the Immaculate Contraception” and spray paint it on my bedroom door.” So, I’m not really sweating it right now, but I wonder if, when I’m 34 and lonely, I’ll regret the decision to damage my body to the point of being physically incapable of reproducing.

He continues to dive deep into my hands, with a rather large amount of sincerity and curiosity. 

“Did you ever feel a spirit around you? You have a spirit – someone who died in your family. This spirit is protecting you, and this spirit will give you anything you want. Light a white candle for the spirit.”

As soon as I got home, I went to Produce Pro to buy a white candle and start building a new altar for the spirit. Although – no, I should refer to “the spirit,” I guess I should call her by her name. Esther. Esther Reyes. And Julie, too. Because, clearly, it’s not going to be anybody on my father’s side of the family. But, rather, my hella Filipina bat shit crazy grandmother that I’ve actually never met. The whole back story to which is probably…not blog appropriate at the moment.

He also tells me that I’m good with money, and that I should sleep with a white scarf on my head so that I can see the future. 

He upsells me & Miguel on a fat bag of prodigiosa, and, clutching my contra la ley & ven dinero candles, I walk back to the car, where I sit and listen to Bone Thugs & Harmony while blasting down the freeway and thinking about the things that the shaman at the botanica told me. 

the bitch that tried to fight me at that party last night

“I read your blog, honey,” and she goes to grab my hand. She had been inching closer to me, but I guess it didn’t occur to me that she would be dumb enough to lay her hands on me. I immediately flare up, but Miguel throws his arm in front of me and holds me back. 

I guess, so what, you read my blog, whoop de doo, it’s on the Internet for a reason. I would really have no problem laying my hands on her, if that’s what she wants, a physical altercation. But later on I realize that she didn’t try to fight me because she actually wanted to fight me. She was trying to get Miguel to hit her, which is evidenced by the fact that she literally said, “What are you going to do, hit me?”

I understand what’s going on here. Basically, the victim mentality that is fueling her actions has reached such a psychological extreme that she is basically willing to do anything get someone to hit her. Because she knows in her mind that as soon as she gets someone to hit her, the victim card will come shining out like a beacon of light. The amount of attention that people will relish on her will somehow make her feel good about herself. Pity party, population shitty ex girlfriend. 

It’s kinda sad to see someone so desperate for attention. For a bit of a back story, Miguel dumped her more than a year ago. It was a sloppy break up, the end of to a  5 year saga. But, hey, after you’ve spent 5 years of your life investing in someone else, isn’t it reasonable to want to be on good terms with them after the romantic aspect of the relationship hasn’t worked out? But she wasn’t capable of that. And now, for some reason, she has taken it upon herself to make her presence known at several of the establishments that Miguel and I frequent, for example Ruby Room and Rec Center. Both places we work at. 

At this point, you might be wondering, how do I factor into their relationship? Well, I don’t. Not really. I’m Miguel’s best friend and roommate, and I have been for a while. Her? I don’t even know her. I’ve probably talked to her fewer than 10 times in my life, and by talk, I mean, had brief 2 minute interactions with her. Suffice it to say, Miguel is my best friend and I love him. If there are people who are trying to fuck with him, they’re basically also trying to fuck with me. 

With her, however, I really tried to make it known that I have no beef with her. Point & case:

Which was sent somewhere at the beginning of June. But for some reason she blocked me on Facebook right afterwards, and when I confronted her, she had nothing to say.

It’s strange to me that someone that I barely know is trying to fight me at a party. I literally know nothing about her, yet for some reason she has decided that she needs to try to hit me. What’s up with that? I have never threatened her, I have never said anything mean to her, I have only tried to be sympathetic to the fact that she was dumped by my best friend, and no hard feelings. If anything, it’s concerning that she would try to fight me at some warehouse party at 3 in the morning. Where were her friends? Why are they letting her physically attack someone that she doesn’t even know?

If you are a friend of hers, it is in your best interest to let her know that she should not be seen at places where Miguel & I hang out. Where we have mutual friends. Because after all this, when people find out you tried to hit me…it’s just not a good look for you, girl. 

how to be manipulative part 3

After he’s done fucking me, I lean over and turn on the Internet. okcupid.com. In a way that makes it seem that I don’t care that he’s watching what I do, or reading the Facebook chats that pop up, too. Open up my messages. Grab my phone. Put the number of some random OK Cupid guy into my contacts, then turn to him and say, “So, what are you doing tonight?” It was an attempt at manufacturing emotional distance, and I think it worked, but I’m wondering now if I regret it. 

So fucking subtle.

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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.