from the friend zone to the fuck zone and back again

I regretfully did not shower this morning despite rolling around on the sidewalk in a drunken stupor at 3am last night. I definitely probably should have. Getting fucked doggy style is the most manageable way for me to hook up with people I don’t really know, mostly because I don’t want to see anyone’s face while I’m trying to have an orgasm. Even when I fuck people I like and have known for a long time, I much prefer it when a boy finishes doggy style because the inevitable orgasm noises always make me want to laugh just a little. I don’t know why. I tend to really overanalyze the noises that I make when I’m fucking, mostly because I feel like a little girl who’s just making the noises that I’ve heard other people make. Are these noises forced? But I’ve also definitely had sex and not made a peep (mostly due to other people in the room, natch), which wasn’t hard but it also made me feel kinda awkward. Whatever. I also feel that bringing this up isn’t necessarily a productive thing, because what if the people I’m sleeping with (have slept with or will slept with, too) read this and also start to overthink sex noises? I am such a fucking head case sometimes, maybe that’s just overly paranoid.

I saw him again and again there were those weird emotions that I’m constantly trying to suppress. They just came up out of nowhere and it felt like getting baptized, or if anyone ever dumps water out on top of your head. This all encompassing sensation that clearly still bothers me and I’m trying to shake it out of my limbs and socks. Of course he looks good, he never not looks good, which was probably the initial catalyst for attraction. 

Having those forced, trite conversations where I try to just laundry list all the amazing shit that’s happening in my life as a pathetic attempt to overcompensate for the sadness and regret building up like bile in my stomach. Which makes all the amazing things I’m doing with my life seem empty and worthless, and I feel so stupid, obviously just trying to make myself seem more attractive and successful than I really am. I’m sure he can see straight through it. But it also means that I have to listen to him laundry list all the amazing things that are happening in his life, which makes me fucking pissed. Trying very hard and succeeding at not just yelling, “Fuck you!” and running away like a little girl. 

I try to think back and remember what it was like to fuck him, when I did it, so often and so vigorously. But I can’t, mostly it’s just like opening dusty drawers that are filled with the large embarrassment that I worked so hard to file away from my consciousness. And I’ve fucked so many people since I’ve fucked him, which part of me just wants to blurt to see if it causes any sort of knee jerk reaction. To see if I can galvanize any glimmer of regret or loss in those eyes. Those eyes! God damn it, those eyes, what I would give to look into them and not see that there’s just a giant pool of nothing, no emotion, staring back at me. It’s not that I want to be desired, just in general, it’s that I want to be desired by him. Everybody else, it was just sex as a distraction. Distract me, distract me, distract me, do you want to distract me??!?

iconic exgirlfriends

“Why did you block me on Facebook?”

Because she had blocked me on Facebook a few days ago. I mean, I get it, I am her exboyfriend’s best friend and roommate, but I always feel that blocking someone on Facebook is merited via massive amounts of harassment and humiliation. And, granted, blocking someone on Facebook – it’s always seemed rather childish to me. Why go the extra mile and block somebody? Why blocking? Why not just unfriend me? That’ll work just as well, and it will be less of a slap in the face, although I don’t really feel slapped in the face, I just think that she looks dumb, and desperate, and immature for taking that extra amount of time to block me rather than unfriend me. I would understand the unfriending. I wouldn’t even bring unfriending up in conversation, because I understand that if she doesn’t feel like we’re friends in real life, why be friends on some vapid social network?

“Well,  you’re his roommate, and clearly you’re on his team, and he’s been really mean to me lately -“

“But I don’t even know you. I’ve talked to you like 5 times in my life.”

Which is true. The number of times I’ve seen her at parties or around Oakland is less than 20. I promise.

“Well-” and this is the part where she starts listing off excuses rather pathetically. You know, the thing that people do when they’re put on the spot, and they just start spewing out any excuse that might make sense hoping that at some point one of them will make sense to me and I’ll start to understand why she blocked me on Facebook. I don’t remember how much I let her ramble on about abusive exboyfriends and whatnot before, “Okay, cool. Well, I gotta go. Have a nice night.” The “have a nice night” part coming from my mouth as condescendingly as possible as I turned around on my 6 inch heels and fluttered out of the Ruby Room. 

I had showed up to the Ruby Room alone, mostly because after a rather depressing dinner date with one of my friends, well, it wasn’t that I *needed* a drink, it was more that I knew if I showed up to the Ruby Room I would run into at least one person who wouldn’t make me feel bummed about the world. Which was why I showed up to the Ruby Room alone at 10 pm on Wednesday, where I realized that, oh, hey, there are at least 10 people here that I know and will talk to me and will make me feel like less of a pathetic loser for showing up to a bar alone in 6 inch heels. 

But then *she* showed up.

I have received strict instructions to always inform my best friend and roommate whenever I see his exgirlfriend, mostly because I’m aware of the unholy fuck wars that occur between exlovers, and also because I’ve been informed that she’s a pretty shitty person, just to begin with. I’m not sure how much of his rant I want to put in this blog post, but suffice it to say that even a year after they’ve broken up, I still get to hear about how abusive and manipulative she is, and that it’s pretty much an Oakland travesty that she would ever show up to his work (yes, he works at Ruby Room) uninvited.

People buy me drinks all the time.

So after I confronted her I decided that maybe I should head over to Night Light, my lushious place of employment, and even though it was my night off, fuck it, my roommate and best friend was working there and I was pretty sure my friend had a birthday party there. So, fuck it.

So I stood next to the bar for half and hour and listened to what a heinous bitch his exgirlfriend is, which slightly entertained me because one of my friends had turned to me and said, “A** looks like she probably isn’t very much of a freak.”

“What? Why do you think that?”

“I don’t know. Just look at her. She has that innocent-pretty thing going for her. She’d never hook up with a guy like me.”

Which is weird, because she definitely dated my best friend for 5 years, so there must be something going on there. 

I wound up going back to Ruby Room, mostly because the amount of alcohol and manic episode that was rocketing around my system made it seem like a good idea to go back and if she were still there I would have definitely gotten into an Oakland worthy girl fight. But she wasn’t there, but there were other people there, and the thing about Ruby Room is I have very few recollections of ever actually being there, despite the fact that I’m there 2 or 3 nights a week. I think I saw…that one person, and also that other person, and then I did that one thing, and, well, you know, somehow I got home and woke up in my roommate’s bed in full party regalia at 1 in the afternoon. So I guess last night was a success, in terms of me getting really fucked up and forgetting about my problems. I definitely remember standing at the bottom of the stoop at my house and trying and failing to bring my bike up until one of my roommates probably heard me falling on the ground and/or I was drunkenly screaming for help while he oh so graciously brought my bike and my tattered self up the stairs. I didn’t get in a fight with anybody, which is surprising because I definitely saw my scared ex-roommate in my peripheral vision, and it doesn’t matter how drunk I get, I will always remember how to throw a punch. (Maybe this is the point where I ask myself if I’m a cyber bully, or just a real bully. Fuck.)

Being a drunken party girl at the age of 24 has offered me no revelations in life, and maybe I should have just gone home and sat quietly in my bed while reading a book and eating health food. But I didn’t.

the physiological feelings of what it’s like to have a manic episode

cocaine. cocaine. cocaine. cocaine.

it’s great, it’s like i’m super high on cocaine or speed, except it’s free, and i don’t have to shovel white powders up my nose. it kinda sucks when it happens in the middle of the day and all i’m trying to do is get things done so that i can have money so that i can continue to leave the all star gutteratti lifestyle that i ascribe to. but, no, instead, all of a sudden, out of nowhere, birthed from a long week of running around and doing things, and now, after sitting on ac transit for 2 aggravating yet hip hop filled hours, here i am, at home, sitting in my room, and, oh my god, oh my god, oh my god, there are so many things i’m thinking that it’s almost stultifying. as i sit on my computer and i’m laundry listing all the things i need to do, calibrating how much time it will take, when will i have free time, is there time for me to sit down and watch xfiles while twitter beefing with people i don’t really know or should i sit down and hem that ever growing stack of maxi dresses into ill fitting ass revealing micro mini slut wear? gotta pay the bills, i should call my mom, holy shit, i just remembered so many friends i haven’t seen in so long, i should call them. i want to get drunk. i DEFINITELY want to do drugs, and while probably popping some xanax right now would be an amazing way for me to handle this all natural body high, it would probably also help me for the impending manic episode come down, aka depression, but that’s so far away, right now i’m just high on chemical imbalances. and then i start running around the house, and if anybody makes the sad mistake of trying to enter into a conversation with me, poor them, because the words that come zipping out of my mouth at a million miles an hour, an inevitably narcissistic monologue about ME & MY day, and it gets very hard for me to listen to other people. also i should probably clean my room and i think a lot very much about fucking and who i can fuck and if my insane chattiness right now is in any way preventing from getting laid. and then – oh god – and then – the mother fucking paranoia. which is only accentuated by the internet, where my adamant add and desire to constantly click from tab to tab to tab to tab while i refresh every feed, every facebook, every twitter, every tumblr, every instagram, every huffington post, every ok cupid, every email account, every social network while i acutely assess who is hanging out with whom and why i haven’t been invited because the only thing that i want right now is to hang out with other people and TALK to them and then probably FUCK them. insatiably. like a dog. but i’m so fucking paranoid because all these people and all the things that they’re saying, how does that affect me??!?! oh my god, oh my god, and so i just tweet about how paranoid i am and then i kinda also really like how my body feels, and i know that if i synthesize this high with just a little bit of cocaine and then a lot of alcohol then i will feel like a million bucks, and i will be all up in that party, any party, is there even a party tonight? i’ll find a fucking party, and i’ll talk to everybody, and i’ll look really good because part of being manic means that i’ll be ripping through my closet trying everything on and i’ll probably make a big mess which i’ll immediately clean up because i’m feeling oh so tweakery right now. then i’ll stay up til 4 or 5 or 6 or 7 or 8 or whenever in the morning because oh my god i feel so good right now. and everybody here looks so attractive, and as i’m thinking about all these things that i could do right now to make my life better, like maybe i should call my mom and i should probably talk to my exboyfriend soon about something, anything. maybe i should destroy something beautiful, and i’d like to get more money just so i can have more money not because i want to spend it, but because all those people that are making me feel so fucking paranoid with their mother fucking tweets and status updates will probably feel like shit if they saw that i had money. i mean, things get kinda hectic right about now, mostly because as i try to voraciously process the precise mechanisms of this american macrocosm and how it affects my precise microcosm, and culture, and my roll in it, and i wonder if i go to this party and not that party what people will say or even if anyone will notice or maybe i should spend more time sexting all 3 of these dudes right now because if i don’t have sex today i’m probably going to explode with frustration and seeing as when i’m manic i talk a lot my poor friends will be subjecting to the insane paranoid ramblings of why is it that this one dude this one time didn’t fuck me, was it because i’m too pretty or too crazy or too weird or too what? what is it?

okay, okay, whatever, cool, my hands are shaking, maybe i should go for a bike ride, but what if i’m peaking right now, and if i’m peaking right now that means that in 3 hours when i meet up with whatever boy i’ve conned into taking me out to dinner tonight i’ll just be sluggish and glum, and if i’m peaking, hell ya, i fucking love peaking on a manic episode, it makes me feel like a million dollars, like the world is mine, like every decision i make right now will be the right one, and everything i say will be witty and charming, and no one is as pretty as i am right now, and no one is more successful, and i can do whatever i want, and i can say whatever i want, and holy shit be manic really galvanizes this absurd superiority complex within my ego, or is it id, or is it super ego? I AM THE MOTHER FUCKING INTERNET. i’m so smart when i’m manic, it’s crazy, i just know everything. do you wanna fuck me do you wanna fuck me do you wanna fuck me do you wanna fuck me let’s get drunk drugs drugs drugs i’m manic blahhhh bipolar disorder hey party party then pull down my pantyhose i’m also a really good writer when i’m manic omg omg omg omg omg omg omg omg omg omg omg omg waaaaaaaaaaasted delusional, am i delusional, is that what it is? is this just not reality? am i just totally wrong, no, maybe the world doesn’t work this way, maybe i’m just fucking crazy, oh god, things are skewing and it’s weird, color just looks so different when i’m manic, like the colors, everywhere, they’re so bright and so beautiful, are they always like this or is it just that the neurological changes as chemicals rocket from synapse to synapse as the things i see and the things i do and the things i say, somehow they’re different, somehow they’re better, somehow they’re shinier, and pleasure euphoria hedonism feels so good flooding everywhere in my brain.

i lie a lot when i’m manic.

but that’s okay because in about 3 hours when my hands stop twitching and my legs calm down and i run out of interesting things to say i’ll probably just be sitting here, kinda drunk and coming off of drugs and alone because i’ll start to feel like shit and generally this is followed by some sort of half assed attempt at suicide because when i’m coming down from a manic episode, that’s when the voices that aren’t mine start telling me things that aren’t my thoughts, mostly that i should walk over there across the room and open up that drawer and take those pills and shove them down my throat because voices, will the voices please stop? when will they stop?

i’m scared.

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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.