Sex and Power: A Primer for Young Women

I had always felt a great sense of community here in Oakland, California. It was a strong community, one in which I could fester or flourish as I saw fit. It was support system, a connection of myriad resources and relationships that served to further bolster itself.

But one day that community vanished for me. There are plenty of reasons for that, and maybe it vanished for you, too. Or maybe you have no idea what I’m talking about. So, let me tell you: one day that community fell through my hands like it was made of sand. My community, which I thought was a castle, crumbled and disappeared.

Of the many reasons I blame for this sense of communal dissipation, I can’t help but look back onto my role within that community. I was part of a tight knit group of fuck ups. We were all friends, and we all had our demons. This made us more apt to forgive each other, which in turn made us more apt to sin without remorse. But diving into the belly of the beast is not a group sport for the faint of heart. There will always be casualties.

I was not one of those casualties.

When I say “belly of the beast” I’m generally referring to the typical vices of urban youth. If you’re confused as to what those vices are, go back to page one of this blog and start reading. All the usual suspects are there: rampant promiscuity, violence, all the illicit drugs, theft, betrayal, prostitution, vandalism, scamming 101, unchecked wrath, a touch of criminal commerce. You know – all the fun stuff.

It’s easy to see how someone could get caught up in all of that. It’s hard to have a pretty face after having seen so much over the course of an entire lifetime. Some of us definitely looked worse for the wear. Some of us got trapped in it permanently. Some of us will have to cope with impending institutionalization because of it. Others ran away. There have been deaths.

I walked away.

It wasn’t easy. It was more like clawed my way out and managed to get away eventually. It was incredibly painful. Somehow, I had found my way into that community but I still knew the way out. I understand why people would resent me for walking away, relatively unscathed but still functional in a traditional sense.

My role in my old community was a reflection of who I still am today. My role in all future communities will be the same, too. I was always a writer, I will always be a writer. The role of the writer is to observe. To step back and steep in the details. Rummage through the muck for just a glimmer of beauty. I was a rabble-rouser. A raconteur. A wild child. Perhaps I was an impostor, too, drunk in my bedroom and writing away about whatever it was that I saw in the world. Perhaps the reason I’m not a part of the community anymore is because I didn’t belong. I certainly don’t belong now.

Yes, I am sad.

As much as I miss all the fuck shit I used to do, being a sell out in Oakland isn’t really that bad. It’s a bit lonely, but my options in the face of change were slim. I could rise with the tide or sit and drown. I wasn’t in the habit of drowning – I had tried it once, and it didn’t work. It’s hard to sink to the bottom when you’re used to kicking. I don’t believe in suffering for sake of pain. I believe I deserve the best that the world has to offer, and anyone who stands in my way is a fucking fool. So I chose to rise with the tide.

What did you choose? Did you have a choice?

Assimilation as an Act of Destruction

Here I am. As both an other among enemies and an enemy among others. I guess that’s the thing about being racially ambiguous – I can fit in where I don’t belong, and I can’t fit in where I do belong, although belonging is a subjective war within myself. I’ll leave that for later.

What I mean to say is: I’m white passing.

I know that a lot of other white passing PoC resent that categorization, because when someone else says you’re white passing, it feels like cultural erasure. It feels like the suffering that our ancestors went through at the hands of white tyranny.

But I’m not here to talk about my emotions and how badly I feel about my ancestry and my current social standings. Because as someone who has darker skin than me said: being white passing is a privilege.

Oh, yeah. It is. It’s a privilege that doesn’t even feel good, but it’s a privilege nonetheless.

The privilege of white passing means one thing that is very important: I can enter white spaces that other PoC cannot. I can be accepted by white people (up to a certain point, cuz let’s be real…). I can rise among the ranks of white people, although maybe just a little bit, but definitely more than other PoC.

So what should I do with this privilege?

Clearly, I dislike the cultural erasure of being declared “white passing” by my fellow PoC. I’m not into white supremacy or the patriarchy, either. Yes, as someone who identifies as PoC, I’d rather be among my friends. But because I have this privilege, I also have the responsibility of doing something with my privilege. Of leveraging my privilege to help everyone who doesn’t have this privilege. I think I can use this privilege to negate – no, destroy the relevance of skin color privilege in a racist society. I’m opening the door.

No – fuck that. I’m opening the flood gate.

And I hope all of you will join me. As I smile and use my white passing privilege to gain access to previously all white spaces or jobs or clubs or industries or wherever my privilege takes me. Here, take my hand. I’m going to stick my foot in the door, then I’m going to pry it open, and we are going to waltz into their homes and take a seat at the table. Together. You and me. We are going to take their seats, and we’re going to take their table, too.

This is what I am choosing to do with my privilege. All you need to do is walk through the door once it’s open.

Of course, I’m sure I’ll get some doors slammed in my face. I might be the only one who gets to enter. I might loose a finger or two with my hand reaching in. But I’m going to do it, and once I’m in, please come with me. It’s lonely in there for a white passing PoC like me. I’d really appreciate it if my friends joined me.

Welcome to My Roofie Circle Part 3

I woke up after having been asleep for 16 hours, and I knew it: I had been roofied! Again!

Ugh.

I traced my steps back through the previous day’s events: the first shot of Fernet at that one bar, that scotch on the rocks at the next one, the glass of wine and port with dinner, the glass of wine at the last bar. Hm – doesn’t make sense. I had the first drink at 6 and was home at 9:30, meaning I had five drinks over the course of three and a half hours, most of them low ABV, and I had eaten. I was not fucked up enough to be feeling like this today.

If you’ve been reading this blog this week, you’re probably all caught up on my experiences of being roofied. There are two other distinct memories of having been roofied. There’s also this one time where I accidentally blacked out on muscle relaxers which felt eerily similar to being roofied. (In my defense, I had been off the muscle relaxers for 24 hours so I hadn’t technically or purposefully been mixing, but later I learned that shit stays in your system long enough to turn three drinks into blacked the fuck out. Yikes.)

Being roofied sucks. Today is Tuesday and this happened on Saturday night, which means I’m still in the throes of a chemically induced depression and kinda trying to put the pieces of my life back together. I definitely feel like I’ve lost a bit of my grip on my reality, like I’ve been infected with an alien sadness that is being nudged along by this innate sense of, “I’m not safe.”

I hate this feeling. What I hate even more is that I went out last Saturday because I was doing research on a piece for the East Bay Express on legendary dive bars of the Bay Area. I just lost two and a half days to being too fucked up to function, and now I’m not sure if I’ll make my deadline. I’m also not sure if I want to write an article about dive bars after having been roofied. I kinda just want to be able to drive again and walk around without feeling dizzy and also not feel like I’m on an unstoppable emotional roller coaster. This is horrifying.

What’s more horrifying is knowing that I could have not woken up in my bed after being asleep for 16 hours. Or that my friend (who also got roofied) could have been in a bad place, too. I guess we’re lucky. I guess I’m lucky that I’ve woken up in my own bed pretty much every time this has happened.

I don’t want to be a fear monger, but I definitely feel afraid right now. I’m 30 now, and I’ve been hanging out in bars for “9” years now, and I write about bars, and I work as a bartender, and bars are generally my home base. I go to bars alone. I got to bars alone in foreign cities. I go to sketchy bars. I have seen predators out at bars. I have been safe in those situations.

NONE OF THIS IS MAKING ME FEEL BETTER.

This isn’t to say that this shouldn’t have happened to me, or that I should have known better, or the odds are so slim, or poor me, or someone else deserved this. This happened to me before 9 pm on a Saturday night. But it happened. I don’t know how to stop it, which makes me feel powerless, which in turn makes me feel fucking sad.

Welcome to My Roofie Circle Part 2

The second time I got roofied was at a bar in Downtown Oakland. It was a Monday night, and I was there because I usually “ran into” this boy with whom I was hooking up at the time. It was analog romance – we didn’t text or call each other, we just usually went home together after conveniently bumping into each other at this one bar on Monday nights.

I had been out with friends earlier but hadn’t had too much to drink. We all found our way to my bar of choice, and I had one drink. Maybe two. The boy I was waiting for hadn’t shown up yet, but some other boy I liked was there so I said fuck it.

It’s around this point in time that things got fuzzy. I was dancing with my other boy when I saw the boy I had been waiting for. The boy I had been waiting for was (of course) there with another woman. If I had been coherent, I would have understood that, well, yeah…I’m here with another boy, it doesn’t matter. But apparently (and this I learned like a year later) I went up that boy and his other girl and said or did some out of pocket things.

I don’t remember how I got home that night or what else happened.

Fast forward to some future point in time. I wound up hooking up with the boy who had shown up with another woman at the bar again. We had a decent relationship, which namely means that the above mentioned incident eventually came up in conversation.

“Remember when you yelled at me for having a date when you were clearly on a date with someone else?”

Such romantic pillow talk.

“Oh, uh, yeah…”

“I was so mad at you! I was juicing that chick! She was paying all the bills and you almost fucked that shit up for me!”

“I’m sorry.”

“You were wasted. I’ve never seen you that drunk before. It was actually kinda funny. You’re cute when you’re drunk and angry.”

“Oh, well, thanks, but, um…this is kinda awkward to say, but I wasn’t drunk. I had only had two drinks. I think I was roofied.”

“What? No – you were just drunk.”

“No, I swear to God! I had one Fernet shot and a gin and tonic, and then I was, like, a goner. How long have you known me now? Like two years? Have you ever seen me more wasted than that?”

“No.”

“And have you ever known me to get hella out of pocket and not be discreet and yell at anyone for fucking other people because you know I fuck hella people and don’t give a fuck.”

“Yeah, that’s true.”

“So…I was roofied.”

“Oh…maybe you’re right.”

“Nah, I’m definitely right. How many times have we gotten fucked up on all sorts of shit til 7 am and never given a fuck about any of that shit. That’s just not me.”

“Oh, well, my other-other girlfriend was a total alcoholic and she would do that kinda shit on the daily.”

“Yeah, but I’m not your other-other girlfriend. I’m me, and you know me better than that.”

“Oh, okay. Yeah. I guess you’re right. I guess I believe you.”

“Believe me?”

“Yeah. You were roofied.”

“Yeah. I was. Damn straight. And that shit sucked.”

Welcome To My Roofie Circle Part 1

The first time I was roofied was in Austin, Texas in 2011. I was at South by Southwest with the music app company I worked for at the time. I was 23.

I was the only female employee at the company where I worked. I was the lowest level employee in the company and at the time I was also the victim of wage fraud. Namely, I didn’t get paid jack shit, but that is neither here nor there. Rather, it’s worth noting that as a woman in a small, start up company, I was undervalued and often overlooked. It happens.

When we went to Texas, I wound up spending a lot of time with my friends who were there. What can I say – I was cooler than the nerds with whom I worked. I went off the beaten path.

However, at one daytime show I started to feel weird. I had been drinking a tall can that I admit I wasn’t paying too much attention to. It was a small show. I was with friends. It didn’t seem weird.

But it was weird.

I distinctly remember feeling like I couldn’t move my body. I think I piled into the back of some band’s van, where I was definitely passed out for a while. I don’t really remember. I do remember that the band was kind enough to drop me off by my hotel, and, my god, the half block back to my hotel room felt like a fucking trek.

I knew immediately that I had been roofied because a tall can wasn’t going to knock me out at the tender age of 23. Back then I was a heavy drinker and occasional drug user – but I knew my limits. I knew how to get fucked up and what it felt like. Getting black out drunk or even mixing benzos and booze didn’t feel like “I can’t move my body.” What I felt that day in Texas was a completely different sensation.

Of course I told my boss. I was in bed at 9pm, which given my propensity for partying was uncharacteristic.

But what was I supposed to do – it happened on day 3 of 6 days of partying, and at 23 I wasn’t one to miss a party. I’m sure someone told me that I should take it easy or not drink or sit it out. But I didn’t. I mean, I tried to take it easy, which translated to just a couple drinks, which translated to (wait for it) total drunken hysteria. Yeah…lots of screaming, lots of falling down stairs, a pair of beautiful and broken shoes. A pretty intense black out. I definitely vomited in the streets and then tried to make out with someone right after. Might have told someone I loved him.

In retrospect I’m surprised I didn’t lose the job that day. I lost it eventually, obviously. But it was an eye opening experience – as a young woman, I’m expected to care for myself even when I’m in circumstances where I was drugged in a city I had never been to before and surrounded by mobs of strangers. That’s an impossible task. It was horrific, really, to think that I didn’t have the resources or the support to take care of myself in that situation which was quite treacherous.

On Friendship

Sometimes people tell me I am strong. I do not know what that means, if that is good or bad. Every time that I meet someone new, and they tell me that I am strong, I can tell that it is a quality that they admire. Strength in the face of adversity is a noble trait, and when I am facing the same adversity as my friend, then my strength is a positive characteristic. I use my strength to protect myself, to survive, to help those who are close to me. However, as happens in many relationships, when my friend becomes my adversary and I use my strength for the exact same purpose – to protect myself, to survive – then all of a sudden my strength becomes the worst thing about me. This is confusing, because I will always only use my strength to protect myself, to survive, to thrive. It is the same strength that people admire when we are on the same team. It is the same strength that I use when those closest to me hurt me. That strength cannot be separated according to other people’s whims of how my strength benefits them. It functions on the same principles that were, at first, admired. I will not be conned into believing that my strength is my greatest weakness just because it inflicts pain in a way that is inconvenient for you. Not after your applauded me for inflicting pain on our common enemy first. That’s not how this works. My strength is mine to wield, and if you want to be a naive bystander, then you cannot blame me when you find that the strength you thought was yours is in fact entirely mine. Find your own strength, and do not use it like your weaknesses, which you have already tried to use against me to destroy me. That did not work, and it will not work when you are strong because that’s not what strength is.

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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.