Anarchist Seeking Love In A Capitalist Society

I see him at the bar and I can already tell: he’s more successful than I am. He’s dressed like it, too, with that slicked back hair and that pearly smile. He’s older than me, which is probably why he’s more successful than me, and he makes more money than I do. He probably has a college education (which I don’t have), and he probably pays rent on a two bedroom apartment in Downtown Oakland like it’s nothing.

I want to run away. But I shouldn’t, because I’m trying to be less of a coward these days, and I invited him here. So I should see this through.

I don’t want to be with a man like that. I’ve tried explaining this to my mother, but she doesn’t want to hear it. She thinks I should be with a man like the one at the bar tonight. She wants me to be with someone who will take care of me and pay the mortage and pick expensive bottles of wine at the grocery store. I get it – it does sound nice, being with someone who has money and has his shit together.

But that’s not me. I’m an anarchist. I guess that’s the simplest way that I can put it. I didn’t go to college, and I have no respect for our capitalist system. Being with a man who flourishes in capitalism? That’s not really something I respect, because succeeding in the capitalist system is a dirty thing to do. There’s something almost loveless about it. Or, at least, all the men I have met who are successful capitalists seem loveless. There must be something about going to college and getting good grades and aiming for a promotion in order to buy a nice life that makes men so…emotionally undercut.

Yes, we all have to succumb to the domineering narrative of male as “provider,” which is why men have to go to college and good get jobs. But there’s something about a man (or any person, really) who works forty hours or more a week in pursuit of career and financial success that makes him so emotionally underdeveloped. I get it – work is a great place where you can invest yourself and see immediate, tangible rewards. Emotional growth? People don’t get cash bonuses for being able to express their emotions constructively or communicating disappointment to a partner without ruining the relationship.

I can already see it in the guy at the bar. I already know what kind of tacit contract I am signing by sitting here and letting him buy me drinks. If it goes any further than tonight, if we ever have sex, if we ever date, if we ever want to get married – this will always be the natural hierarchy of things. He will always be older than me, he will always make more money than me, and he will always be the smarter one in the relationship. I will always be the little girl who needs his advice on how to move up in the world. Every time I pick up the check, it will be cute because it means that I care enough to spend money on something that I can’t really afford. I will be his pet, and he will have the power, even if he aspire to equality in the relationship. My career and my interests will always be expendable in lieu of other, more pressing pursuits (i.e. his children). I can already feel it.

But what if I don’t want to be second best in a relationship. What if I don’t want a nice house with a white fence and a dog and children. What if I don’t want to be with a man who looks at me like my value has dropped when I tell him I don’t like to cook. What if I want to pay for things because I can, because I’m in a good place in my life right now, and I have promise in my career that shouldn’t be compared to what my partner does.

If I aspire to the level of success that this man has, then we will be at a relationship impasse: we will both always be too busy, going on business trips, interrupting dinner to take a phone call, working extra hours on the weekend. We will never have enough time for each other. If I date a man who is less successful than me, I will be caught in a trap of emasculation, and he will feel about me the way I feel about this man at the bar: second best.

I am left with only one option here: I have to date someone whom I love, who respects me and supports me, and who doesn’t define life or relationships in financial terms. I can fuck anyone I want, but a relationship? I’ll have to find a man who isn’t afraid of me and who doesn’t fetishize me. I will have to find a winner.

This is a daunting task.

Emotional America

Where is my American Dream? I find myself in a macrocosm of chaos, and everything is zoomed in on the spectacle of pain. Grief is the emotion that used to sell us the news, and that exploitation of emotion does nothing to address the underlying cause of said grief. Instead I am sitting here, robbed of my emotion so someone else can make a profit, and feeling – what? What am I allowed to feel now? When I use my own pain to sell myself on social media, to participate in the grand spectacle of chaos into which we are all inextricably drawn. When every emotion is an animation in the ceaseless scroll of snippets of other people’s lives that we ogle for two seconds for our own entertainment before moving on. We play out our paranoia of the loss of privacy by displaying everything publicly, as those willfully succumbing to our own public humiliation will make it better if we have an ounce of control in this narrative of downfall.

We have created the melodrama to which we now fall victims. We are all actors in our own reality TV shows. And what happens when we are all stars but none of this is real. We have been trained to have emotions that entertain other people, but what about emotions that serve us long term and allow us to heal? What if the point of our emotions isn’t to create a bigger, brighter spectacle? What if the spectacle is not the end game at all? What if inner peace is more worth seeking, and the things we broadcast are less sexy than curated images of high points and triumph. What if pain is meant to be felt. And everything about this is going to be okay, even if it’s okay in a way that’s different from the okay we want it to be.

Delicate Emotions in the Face of Sexuality

I’ve been feeling fragile lately. For a long time. Life has not been a constant linear in the way that I thought it would be. Over time, I have changed. And this document of sexuality and romance has grown beyond itself, or, rather, I have grown beyond this documentation.

There was a certain frivolity that characterized this blog. But as I near the finality of youth, I realize that expecting this blog to be consistent or, at least, the same over time is doing myself a great disservice. To be as obsessed with sex today as I was when I started this blog five years ago would belie a certain stagnation on my part. It would be characteristic of something sinister, too, if I were to remain hooked on a fascination with something with which I am now so familiar. It would be childish to be the same person I was when I was younger. It wouldn’t make sense.

The world has changed, too, and me with it. To fuck like the world is okay wouldn’t make sense. Instead, I feel fragile in the face of what the world has become and who I have become in it. I feel less brave, less brash, less brazen. I need a new strategy. This is neither the time nor the place to carefree. To be carefree would be reckless, although I only say that with the hindsight of someone who has been there and done that. You can be carefree if that’s what suits you. Me? I have to protect myself now.

How do I fuck in this new epoch of my own life. I guess we will find out.

Seeking Solidarity Part II

I recently quit my job because, well, it was time. I had already quit earlier that year but had been talked into staying after I was offered a promotion – but no raise. I resigned myself to a couple months of working but realized, wow, it’s really hard to work somewhere when you can sense you’re being grossly undervalued. I look at jobs the same way I look at relationships: new ones are always fun and exciting, but if you’re not willing to invest in me over time, I’m going to leave. (Mostly because I being undervalued in society is endemic among women, be it professionally or romantically.)

Which I did. I left. I put in notice. Which is fucking scary. There’s something comfortable and warm in the familiar and known, even if exhaustion and tediousness and being burnt out comes with the familiarity. There is no overt challenge in the status quo. Change? That requires me to try harder. My bad attitude is very cozy. Sometimes I choose to keep it.

But not today. Today I venture into the unknown. The unknown isn’t a very safe place for women, mostly because the unknown generally doesn’t hold promotions or huge pay raises or overwhelming professional opportunity. The unknown is a dark room with a low glass ceiling.

This is an expression of vulnerability. This is an exercise in letting go.

So I texted my friend, with whom I have worked in the past and who is well respected in our field. I look up to her as a professional and as a strong woman. I told her about my decision. In many ways, I was asking for her approval, for her validation.

Often times, I find that in moments of vulnerability, when I ask for validation or compassion, my openness can be met with disdain, imposed worry, or glibness. It’s a hard thing to cope with – a lack of empathy when I need it the most can be jarring and a cause for self doubt.

But when I texted my friend, she didn’t do anything like that. Instead, she said something that gave me courage, gave me hope, that made me feel like even in the face of uncertainty, everything is going to be okay.

“I support you.”

And with that, I step out of the past and into the future. That is all I need from her, and all I need from anyone, ever, really: support.

I support you.

Seeking Solidarity

My therapist brings up Ghost Ship all the time in therapy. She’s one of those people who saw it from the outside and experienced the ripple effects of that event in our community without being personally linked to any of the victims.

Me? I lost my friend Donna, who was my best friend when I first moved out of my mom’s house and into Oakland. We worked at Mars Vintage on Telegraph in 2006. She was one of those formative friends – I was 18, and she was 22 and so much cooler than me.

When I met Donna, Oakland was starkly different from the city it is today. In 2006, I lived in a warehouse in West Oakland across from a truck stop that housed raves every weekend but has now been converted into condos. I paid $250 a month to live there and used the underage bus pass to travel between home and work.

There are small things that remind me about Donna every day. She had bright red hair and a dingy red truck, and she used to play Mac Dre’s “Too Hard for the Fucking Radio” on one of his original release cassettes. We used to drink Taaka vodka and make weird art at her house. She made me throat coat tea whenever I was sick at work. We’d ride our bikes to LoBot and get shitty drunk in the middle of the street.

After I moved to San Francisco in 2008, we didn’t hang out as much. We stayed in touch over the years, consistently but infrequently. Right before the fire, I had been hospitalized and she had texted me to say we should hang out. I said, “Yes,” I wanted to hang out, but I had been too sick to really make plans with people. That was the last conversation we had before she died.

We all remember what happened that day. Where we were when we found out. What it felt like to see familiar names on the list of missing people. That’s not what I want to dwell on.

Here we are, more than six months later, and I’m trying to swallow everything that has happened, still. When I was sitting in my therapist’s office, she asked me, “What does this community need to heal?”

In some ways, I don’t know how this community can ever heal. This is a tragedy that exploded into national headlines and empty political causes. It became a spectacle from which we all became removed. People talked vaguely about the arts community. People don’t talk about the arts community anymore.

Instead, here we are, and this city feels toxic. Like we were promised some sort of healing for our pain, but that healing never came. Pain is so exhausting. This collective trauma has been damning.

It’s not just Ghost Ship that has made us all feel defeated. It’s the political climate that reminds of us how dangerous this world is. It’s the fact that we still can’t afford to be here. The community that we have had for the last ten years is disintegrating. The feeling of powerlessness is overwhelming.

All I want is one small victory. All I want is one moment of relief, to feel like things are going to be okay. To feel like we have each other not in united tragedy but in collective triumph. Oakland found its voice in the tragedy of Oscar Grant in 2009, and by the time Occupy Oakland came to fruition in 2011 and 2012, we were going full swing. Back then it felt like things were happening. Black Lives Matter became a uniting cause shortly thereafter as we took to the streets to protest police brutality. But somewhere along the lines, we started to lose the class war. These seemingly impossible causes made headway in national headlines, but now here we are in 2017 and no one can hear us scream anymore.

Now more than ever we need each other. Things were rough before, but now we are in the shits. The sense of collective despair in this town is stifling. As this city continues to grow economically, we still see sprawling homeless encampments that are now the victims of arson. People are quietly leaving left and right – people who are from here, people who participated in the culture of art and protest here.

I am willing to fight until my last death rattle. I don’t have a lot of fight in me right now, but I still have something left. I am seeking a new solution to my sense of despair and defeat. I can’t do it without you.

Indestructible, With Flaws

I’ll admit it. I don’t really know what I’m doing. I’m trying to navigate the world as it changes into a beast I don’t recognize, and I’m trying to figure out what my place in this world is. Who am I in a society that I defy? Who have I become when I don’t belong? I have so many questions for the world today.

None of us belong anymore. But do we belong together?

I’ll admit that I fucked up, too. In many ways, I wish I had done things differently. I wish that I had done more. But I can’t change that anymore. I am here, and all I can do is be here, now. I have sinned. I have asked for forgiveness. I will continue to sin, and I will continue to ask for forgiveness. I am vulnerable. I am afraid. I am doing the best that I can, and I don’t know if it will be enough. But it has to be enough.

I am asking you for solidarity. Which I know is a hard thing to ask for, especially because I don’t know what I’m doing and I am fucking up. But it’s solidarity or it’s all of us alone, together. If we fight together, we will be indestructible.

Do you know what you’re doing? Are you fucking up? I’ll admit to this, too: I don’t really care if you are. It doesn’t matter. I’d rather be on the same team than have to fight alone. Than to watch you fight alone, too.

This is my case for solidarity.

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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?

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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.