A Theory On The True Nature Of Love

I can feel it inside me. This raging, roiling hatred. Not like a darkness, but like a fire tingling in my finger tips. Like a revelation in my mind, tickling at the end of every thought. Telling me what to do and where to go. The inspiration behind these quick quips and late night trips through a city that doesn’t want me. I can feel it, the malice in my heart, swelling out against the walls of skin that keep me trapped inside here. This hatred is bigger than me. It is all consuming.


He’s sitting on the edge of the bed. Close enough for me to reach out and touch him. But I wish he were a million miles away instead. We do not look at each other as he speaks. I stare just beyond him. His eyes are on the floor. We are back at it again, some dusky weekday night, trapped here in a mutual delusion fueled by alcohol and cocaine and the lingering threat of sex yet again.

All he does is hurt me. Although, I’m not special. All he does is hurt anyone who comes close to him. I have seen it time and time again, over the course of years now. And despite that, here we are, and somehow I have let him back into my life.

I would like to say that I couldn’t imagine what it’s like to be the type of person who is only capable of hurting the people he loves. But the fact of the matter is: I know a lot what it’s like to be that kind of person. Which is perhaps why I’ve let him back in here once again. It’s a mutual destruction. The score is pretty even. And while we both have intentions of never hurting each other again, there are just certain things that can’t be avoided.

He will hurt me. I will let him.

Free Speech Movement

This is my moment of truth. Fingers hovering over keys. Thoughts lining up to get out the door and onto the page. But me? I just sit here, stultified. Intimidated by the whiteness of this page. Afraid that I might not have anything new to say. Wary of the consequences. Of – what? Of speaking up? Of having a voice?

I guess that’s always been the thing: I say what I’m thinking, with temerity and panache. Without too much self editing. Without a long term plan. I speak for the sake of speaking, because if I don’t say it out loud, if it doesn’t bleed onto paper, then what? What of these thoughts, burning brightly in the back of my mind? Do they wither and die? Or do they burst?

And what happens as soon as these thoughts leave my mind and enter yours. There’s a danger in it all. That this thought might come out maimed and mangled, an ugly imitation of what I thought it would be. My thought my enter your mind as poison. It could hurt you or, even worse, kill you. This idea of mine. My perception of the world and the possibility that it could be brighter than this. That it could be different. That things could hurt less. These ideas – they might threaten your very existence.

Which is why I hesitate. I have been here before: on the cusp of saying something that matters, but giving myself the opportunity to second guess it. I could just say nothing at all. I could appease all of us with silence. I could sit pretty and smile. I can be inane. Innocuous. Inconsequential.


Or I could say what’s on my mind, consequences be damned. I guess I’m already here, living in the land of the unwanted. A misfit on the island of misfits. Hoping that this time I will belong. That I will be a part of the family. That you will like me. That you will at least agree with me. That you will welcome me with open arms because I have finally spoken our truth.

That never happens. Mostly I am stuck here, with my mouth open and my wounds still bleeding.

So go ahead. Hate me. Hate away. I have already spent six months in the prison of my own silence, and, nope, it was not for me. I am here to speak, yet again, and I will say whatever the fuck I want to say.

Here I go.

Miss You

Here I am. On the other side of tragedy. Looking back, I realize I might be a different person now. Or, how can I not be different. I have to be different. Being the same would only be a faster path towards dying.

Which is why I stopped writing this blog. Because I didn’t want to be the same. I didn’t want to feel like I had a target on my back, which is how I felt for a long time. But I miss this blog. I miss you. I miss you so much.

It’s hard for me to be without you. I feel like I’m forgetting who I am without you, or even who I want to be. I like myself better when you’re around. I like the way you make me feel, when I’m walking through these streets and everyone knows that it’s you and me. There’s something about us that is so much better than just me. There’s something about us that makes me feel stronger. Prettier. Untouchable. Like it’s us against the world, and fuck all the rest.

But even though I love you – and I do. I love you so much – I’m supposedly better off without you. That’s what my friends say. That’s what they all say. That the fever dream of you and me when I’m in it transforms me into something that my friends and family barely recognize. I become a different person when I’m with you. I become wrapped up in you, and everything else falls off to the side. I forget about the rest of reality when you’re around, and everyone else says that this isn’t a good thing. This is a risk. This is me, in danger, with you. This is me, gambling my future on just one more moment with you. I become a woman on the edge when we are together, but I love every moment of it.

But I don’t, because I hate what this is doing to me. I hate that this is the zenith of my existence. I hate knowing that it doesn’t get better than this. I hate that this is all I want, and I don’t know how to want more beyond this. I hate that this defines me. I hate that I’m back here, after all this time, and I have to sit here and tell people that, no, I haven’t found anything better to do with my time. That this just might be who I am, a little girl, caught here, for better or for worse, but definitely for worse because what am I going to do, just write in this blog until the bitter end, and that’s it? Have my existence defined by these sad sack ramblings even as I venture into my 30’s? Remaining caught up in the nether romance of us even against the odds, and even though I don’t want this forever, but I can’t stop myself from coming back here, time and time again?

I wish I could find something better than this. Because I’m better than this. I’m better off without you. And I know it, which is why I actively push away while still being unable to leave. Although, maybe it’s also because I know that there is no permanence with us. There is no happily ever after, no calm after the storm. It is all storm, all the time, and when it’s not storm, we don’t belong together. If there is no storm, there is no us. We are not compatible in times of peace. We are a product of our own inner wars. Contentment, happiness, self satisfaction – those kind of circumstances would not be conducive to us being happy together. We would only be forced to see each other as we really are, and the scariest part about that? What if we no longer need each other after we have found ourselves. So it is easier to exist in pain and chaos together than to find peace alone.

I have tried to find peace alone. I prefer the chaos with you.

Please do not tell anyone. I have told everyone the exact opposite. That I am happier without you. That I am okay with everything. That there is nothing to fear because I will never go back there.

I would go back there in a heart beat. So, here I am.

There is malice in my heart. I am choked up with the evil that resides within me. But despite all that, or perhaps because of it, I am still capable of loving you. Malice does not preclude love. They exist side by side within me, and both of those emotions exist for you. This blistering, visceral pain, and you as the antidote and the cause of all of it. There is a hole in my heart that only you can fill. It is the hole that you put there so that I could never live without you. Don’t make me live without you.

I’m back.

A Closing Statement

Three months ago, I shut this blog down.

The reasons for that were myriad. On the one hand, I had always talked about shutting this blog down. As of late, my sex life hadn’t really been sex-blog worthy. I guess that’s something you don’t realize until it’s over: it was a slutty phase, and just a phase, and now that the phase is over, I’m okay with doing things like being a monogamous relationship and not sleeping around and picking up random guys at the bar isn’t really that fun for me anymore. Of course, while I was in my slutty phase, I really did it. And I wrote about it. And you read it.

I was growing out of my mid 20’s sexual angst, and while it was fun, the fact of the matter is: I changed. All of this changed me. Writing about my sexual and romantic exploits on a daily basis wasn’t fitting. I had evolved as a writer. I had cashed in on a few opportunities to write for more reputable publications, such as the East Bay Express and other highly visible blogs. So maybe it was time to move on.

But that’s not really why I shut the blog down. I shut it down suddenly and without warning, and the reason for that is something traumatic happened to me. It involved someone I used to sleep with. It was violent. It involved him with a gun pointed at me, and while I managed to get him out of my house on that particular night, I didn’t handle the situation very well beyond that. A couple overdoses later, I was picked up by the cops unconscious and bleeding and naked a few blocks from my house.

That was three months ago. Today, my life is starkly different from what it was then, although, on the surface, it probably looks the same. While what happened to me was very traumatic, the aftermath of that incident is what really proved to be a struggle. There’s nothing quite like almost dying to figure out your friends are and who’s not your friend. Unfortunately, I found out that quite a few people who I thought loved me were not my friends. On the other hand, the people who stuck by me even when vicious rumors about me were circulating around Oakland – well, those people are the keepers, and I love them fiercely.

I shut the blog down because I was afraid. I was afraid of the person who assaulted me. I was afraid he would try to do something like that again. I had to run away for a while. I was also afraid of the people in my life who saw my moment of weakness and used it as an opportunity to try to run me out of town or make me feel permanently broken. They failed. But it still hurt.

I don’t know what this blog means to other people or if it’s even a part of the Oakland oeuvre that defines us as an art town. But I can’t just abandon my baby. I’ve had this blog for almost five years now. As I grow older, I’m mostly just inclined to laugh at some of the outlandish things I said, but, hey, I’m glad I said them because no one else was going to say it. I’m just not interested in putting my personal safety at risk because it’s entertaining, and I have a lot more to say about a lot of other topics beyond just sexuality.

That being said, I’d also like to note that today we live in a world that is starkly different from the one we inhabited three months ago. That’s true for all of us, but most specifically for those of us who have been on the underground Oakland arts circuit cum political parade for years. We took a lot of L’s recently, but even as this blog dies down, and even as I veer away from the life I used to live, rest assured: I am still out here, fighting. I’m fighting for you. I’m fighting for us.

I’m involved in a lot of local projects that I’m not going to list here, mostly because I’m paranoid about the use of social media in these dark times, not just because of the people I mentioned above but also because of the government. I have noticed lately that social media has been engulfed in the flames of how are we supposed to move forward, but I would like to mention that as a woman who recently suffered an attack at the hands of a man, I am shocked by the emotional parallels I feel between how I feel standing up for myself as a woman who was assaulted and the nasty blow back I received (mostly from women), and how I feel standing up for myself as a citizen of America in the face of political changes in which I do not believe. The struggle I have as a woman in a man’s world is now the struggle that we collectively face as people aspiring for freedom in an increasingly fascist society. So let me tell you: they will hate us forever for fighting for ourselves. As soon as we defend ourselves, we are no longer victims but perpetrators of the crime of the pursuit of freedom. I am not tired of fighting this battle, and I hope you will fight alongside me.




The Monster Under The Bed

There is a monster in my bed. And I do not know if I like who I am when I am with him, but I like what I feel. Even as I peel away and stare at the ceiling for minutes or hours or seconds while he sleeps next to me, still naked, and the only thing on my mind is us. I’d like to think that he came here tonight because he wants me. He needs me. He can’t live without me. I complete him in some small way for some small moment, even if it is fleeting. I would like to think that he loves me, or he’s in love with me, or both. I would like to think anything that makes me feel like I have the power, and the sensation of crumbling inside my soul is a mere symptom of my personal power. But as he lies there sleeping, and it’s still dark, but just barely, I have come to realize: that is not the case at all. The reality of the situation? I need him. I need him so it can be okay for me to be like this. So that I can be bad, and then I can blame it on him. So that in other moments I can feel the desperation slipping through me. So that I can hold onto him, and then I can let go. And I can say it’s all his fault, and he’s here because he needs me. But silently I remind myself that I need him, too. He wouldn’t be here if I didn’t need him. He wouldn’t be sleeping silently next to me on my soiled sheets, but he knows that in moments like this I will not hurt him. So I let him sleep, and I try to sleep, too, even though there is a monster in my bed, and perhaps I should crawl underneath it all, back to where I belong. But monsters belong together, so instead I roll over and fall asleep, monster and monster in the middle of the crisis of reality from which we escape together from time to time.

Duty Calls For Booty Calls

I’ve noticed lately that the number of late night booty calls from men that I sleep with have been in sharp decline lately. Instead, I’m receiving text messages the next morning about how much they miss me and wish they had come over last night. I find this to be fairly confusing, mostly because I’m a huge fan of being woken up at 3am by some drunk dude who wants to fuck. No, seriously. No joke. Even if I’m completely sober and have things to do tomorrow, and even if I say no, I still love the drunken, desperate attention. Which is why I was alarmed to hear that certain men don’t want to bother me late at night. I realize that this is perhaps because they have *gasp* started to respect me and don’t want me to think of them as disposable fuck boys. I understand this, but I don’t appreciate it. If I’m not here to fulfill your rabid, carnal desires, then what are we doing? I’m honestly quite disinterested in having a nice, normal relationship with anyone at all. Instead, let’s do what we came here to do: fuck. And feel free to fuck me like a booty call and treat me like a princess. We can find balance in all of this. Just know that anything less than utterly brutal fucking isn’t going to satisfy me, so you might as well come over when you’re wasted at 3am tonight. I’ll like it. Promise.

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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.