2017: The Unsexiest Year Ever

We live in incredibly unsexy times. And they seem to get unsexier and unsexier as the days go by. Which I find to be pretty frustrating.

As a vocally sex positive writer, seeing the rape revelations surrounding many powerful men has soured my mood beyond just my perception of sex. Every day, I read about how another woman was raped and intimidated and left to rot. As someone who has been in that situation, the constant reminders are sickening.

Of course, as a sex blogger, it’s hard to write about sex when rape is on the brain, the news feed, and the social subconscious of everything we do.

So, I would just like to state, for the record: I am so mad at ruining sex. Again!

Ugh, it is so frustrating that men are not very good at sex and then they rape people. Sex is so fun, yet they have found a way to make it both boring and scary for so many people. Can you not??

As someone who talked about female sexuality as a move towards empowerment, I feel like men have sullied yet another one of my favorite things. It’s hard to touch other people when you think about how touching other people can often times be a cause of fear, panic and pain.

I have no solution for this. I don’t even want to talk about sex right now because it just feels…yucky. Not the “so many bodily fluids all over the place, this is messy!” kind of yucky, but the “horrible, terrible, life scarring emotional trauma” kind of yucky.

Ideally, I am hoping that with these revelations, power is taken away from men who do bad things and given to women who do good things. I am getting sick of the way that we look at each other – the glimmer of wistfulness and excitement has faded away, and something dark is lurking between us. Hopefully, over time, we relearn how to love each other and how to fuck with passion rather than panic.

When will all the enemies be gone?

Hello, Blog. Good Morning.

For various reasons, I was thumbing through my writings from summer 2012 when I was struck by how prolific my writing was. I wrote every day, viciously, non stop, overflowing. It was hard for me to find exactly what I was looking for amidst all those rambling, prosaic posts, but I found it, and along with that I found a strange sense of myself as a writer and the evolution of art.

When I was younger, people used to say a lot of things to me. One of those was, “Never stop writing.” While I appreciate that sentiment, now that I find myself in a position where my writing productivity has definitely slowed down, I feel a bit of resentment towards the people who told me to never stop writing. First off, it’s fucking hard. Publishing two posts a day is an unsustainable, break neck pace at which to run one’s own blog for no fucking money. And – guess what – it turns out I like money because even though capitalism is a failing system, I still don’t want to suffer needlessly.

Now, years later, my response to the people who told me, “Never stop writing” is, “Where’s my fucking money?”

One of the reasons that I post less frequently and less frequently on this blog is because I have a full time job now – and for the first time since I started publishing this blog. When I was younger, it made sense to invest myself into open ended creative pursuits with no real pay off, such as this blog. Now, however, I’ve reached a point in my life where some of those pursuits are starting to pay off, and in the spirit of living in this capitalist society I am investing myself more and more into said pursuits.

This blog, while one of my most cherished creative pursuits, is not one that paid off. I could muse endlessly about why this didn’t pay off but other ones did, but that is neither here nor there. Let’s stay rooted in reality for now.

Another thing that people used to tell me out this blog was, “You should write about something other than sex.”

I always bristled at that comment. That comment always sought to undermine the value of sexuality in a young woman’s life, and I always found that behind that comment lay a wealth of male sexual insecurity. However, I find myself at a point in my life where creating explicitly sexual content has become… lackluster.

There are several reasons for this. My great period of sexual exploration is over. Let’s be honest, there’s not that much new stuff out there for me to do sexually that doesn’t involve serious criminal activity and also I find that men are still so homophobic. (Okay, I’ll spill it, my last great sexual fantasy is to have two secret boyfriends, have them find out about each other, and then seek their revenge by making me watch them fuck. SO HOT.)

Plus, it has finally happened – new dick just isn’t that appealing anymore. Through years of my own social research, I have found that new dick has a 67-82% chance of being unsatisfactory and not worth the call back. I’m not interested in wasting my time anymore.

I’ve been running this blog for five and a half years now. While it has, at times, been juicy, sadistic, depressing and inane, I’m pretty sure that listening to the same person write about the same thing over and over again is pretty fucking boring. In order to give this blog some depth beyond its initial thesis of “20 something fucks all of Oakland,” I have to evolve. It’s not that I’m letting them win, it’s more that I’m allowing myself to grow as an artist. I’m sick of rehasing the same themes over and over again.

So, excuses aside, I will admit: I am sad that this blog is no longer a central focus of my life. A year ago, it came down for a few months, and then it went back up, and now it’s petering out of existence. Meh. That’s fine. Yes, I’ll admit that I miss the wildness of who I used to be, but, my god, it was fucking exhausting and I’m 30 now. There’s no way that was going to carry on past 30. I don’t want to feel like I’ve lost the spirit of life that fueled the fuckery behind this blog – I often wonder where that spirit went in recent months, or how it has changed. If it has gotten better or just damp. Mostly I just wonder why I write less, and why I have allowed myself to live a life that isn’t conducive to my first love, writing.

Time is a fickle beast. Who can say what will come of all this.

Listlessly, I flip through the pages of the New Yorker. My name is not on the masthead, and none of the articles or authors there seem to interest me. Yet I flip nonetheless.

I risk paper cuts by doing so. Judging silently, by now a young 30-something with no longer half baked ideas in her head. These ideas are well done. Overcooked, perhaps. Not yet crisped beyond palatability, but one day we will be there. But not today.

I can taste the ash of dreams in my mouth. This is not a pleasant feeling. To have been writing for so long but still be here, at my kitchen table, flipping idly through the pages. And still not feeling a sense of belonging.

Part of me still believes that it has to do with my college education, or lack thereof. I understand the Oxford comma, but fuck anyone who lets a comma get in the way of grand, human emotion.

I deserve to be on these pages. I deserve notoriety. I have slaved through the word mines of fear and near death. When will I be worthy of New York style fame. When will I be vaunted from this holding place in Oakland, California, which stymies me more as the days go by. When will I be set free from the cage of a city that no longer loves art. Who will save me.

I flip. Through this magazine and that. When will my name be here. When will I be lifted away. When can I leave Oakland. When will I be good enough. When will someone deem me worthy of saving, of paying for a way to not be here, where there is nothing, but the ashes of the dead and the deceit of the living. When do I get to be pretty on a magazine page. When do I get to be anywhere but here.

Here is a dying place, and I am biding my time among the dying. Perhaps one day I will live in a world where right here and right now are not the anathema of existence.

Sleeping With You

I woke up in the middle of the night in a panic, and his arms were locked around me. Crushing me, almost, which might explain the nightmare. But close to him in consciousness felt so much better. I am here, with him, and I am safe. I am safe from the demons in my mind which chase me through the back alleys of my bad thoughts and broken dreams. I am safe from the reality which scoots in closer with threats of unpaid bills and missed social cues. I am safe from the words and the onslaught of messages that constantly tell me I am not being the person I should be. I am here with him, quiet, in the dark. I am safe. I am okay. I am awake with him, and in his sleep he holds me so tight I can feel it in my sleep. It feels good.

So I close my eyes again, and the nightmares do not come. I fall asleep knowing I am safe with him, and I sleep well by his side for at least tonight.

Tripping Down Memory Lane

And then there I was, at 24th and Telegraph, in my high heels, with my hand bag, and with business on the brain. I had been hoofing it around town for work (because I got a new job, which is why my writing here has been sporadic), and I found myself standing outside of the café where I used to hang out when I was 17.

The first time I went there, I had sat on the 43 bus and disembarked on a rough curb in Oakland. It had been raining that day, and I walked inside the café. I had read about it in the East Bay Express, that it was where the artists in Oakland hang out. I sat inside, I ate a tuna sandwich, and I watched the rain while intermittently reading a magazine.

As I stood outside of that café, now at the ripe old age of 30, I could feel the sinking sensation that characterizes the regret of the passage of time. It’s not the same café it was in 2004, nor has it been for many years. The façade is the same, but inside, the people and the dreams they dream are starkly different.

I wound up hanging out at that café many times over the years. That café is the last vestige of the art parties where I used to hang out, something that was dubbed Art Murmur and later became First Fridays, which is now an unrecognizable beast when compared to the starry eyed meandering that characterized those first events.

So many things have happened that have changed this city. Nothing is exactly the same anymore, although the streets have the same name. The bus routes have changed numbers. Many of the people are gone. As I stood outside that café, I realized that my friend with whom I had gone to all those early teenage art parties – she was dead. She had died in the fire. That was almost a year ago.

And how many other people were gone, too. I have lost friends to many things: distance, fires, drugs, general moral conflict. Who else in this city still walks down this street after thirteen years? And what are they doing now.

I caught a glimpse of myself in the reflection of the large glass windows. I am certainly different. Having lost so much to the forces of economics has changed me, as I stand here, in my high heels and my nice dress. Assimilating. I know that so many of my old friends have stayed the same, and I wonder which is worse. Or if time is the worst thing of all.

I hurry down the block, trying not to dally. I have work to do. I have money to make. I have new dreams to pursue, dreams which have been molded by the fact that my old dreams have died in the dust, thirsty and wilting. I have had to find new dreams, which are so different from the dreams I used to have. My new dreams, this new me – am I hurrying away from the scene of the crime because I do not want to see the self that I have failed to be? Or is it because I am still the exact same person, in a completely different world, and the chaos of that idea is too much for me sit with right now.

Ideas for Feminist Organization So We Can Gain Traction Before #metoo Fizzles Out

Ideas for things we can do to affect change:

  1. Do you have access to people who work in media? Do you have the power to uplift writers and artists who address these issues? Can you promote people who are active in this campaign? If so, use your power to help amplify the voice of people who are talking about these issues so that they can be heard by a wider audience. This includes reaching out to artists and writers, connecting artists and writers with editors, producers, directors, finding or creating opportunities for writer and artists who address these issues, finding a platform for these writers and artists or using your own voice to specifically target more conservative media outlets.
  2. Are you a hiring manager? Are you in the upper echelons of the company where you work? Ensure that your company hires women for good jobs and make sure that women are given a fair wage. Foster a work environment free of hostility. Let women work with dignity to support themselves. Even if you’re not a hiring manager, you can foster an environment of safety and dignity for your fellow workers by organizing and uniting. Support each other.
  3. Do you work in human resources? Workers’ rights? Political campaigns geared towards helping underrepresented know their rights and take legal action in instances of sexual harassment or abuse? Are you in the nonprofit realm or do you know people there? Use your knowledge and access to resources to help educate people on what they can do to protect themselves in the work place and out in the world. Make it easy for people to file complaints, address issues, and see real results without the fear of alienation, retaliation or smearing their reputation.
  4. Donate to Planned Parenthood.
  5. Do you have access to people in the political realm? Are you in the political realm yourself? Use your influence to pull political strings and start conversations surrounding protecting women from sexual harassment. Talk to your lawyer uncle about what every day people can do when pursuing legal action. Understand your local domestic violence laws, and ask if they are just. If they are not just, find a way to bring attention to the issue. Study your local government so you can talk to city council members about what they can do to address the problem. Get involved in policy making. Understand how the judicial system works and why judges give rapists lenient sentences. Talk to people who will talk to people about talking to judges who give lenient sentences. Understand their power structures. Infiltrate those power structures.
  6. Continue using your voice to talk about these issues. Create art. Make posts. Never shut up, never get shut down. Use your voice to find and uplift other women. Talk to other women. Speak for women who have not yet found a voice yet (but only with their permission). Build solidarity. Share resources. Show empathy and kindness. We don’t have to be friends – we just have to be allies.
  7. Do you know anyone in the law enforcement profession? Ask them to test those rape kits. Ask they why they haven’t. Ask them what you can do to make sure rape kits get tested. Talk to law enforcement about laws surrounding domestic abuse – the ones in Oakland are crazy.
  8. Support young women. Support their self esteem. Listen to them. Reinforce the fact that their voice is important and heard.
  9. Practice self defense. Teach self defense to other women. Share resources surrounding self defense with other women. Start a self defense group.
  10. Get a cup of coffee with a woman who made a #metoo post. Someone you don’t know. Reach out to one person, and let her know that someone is listening and that we are action oriented.
  11. Create a network. Support each other. Go out into public. Go into places where you don’t feel welcomed but where you can still be safe so that your presence will be known both online and in the streets. Together we are stronger.
  12. Call out problematic behavior. Problematic behavior includes inappropriate touching, sexual intimidation, sexually threatening language, use of drugs and alcohol to influence someone’s sexual activity, sexual shaming, silencing, rape, forced sexual contact, lack of consent, inappropriate language. Talk about it. Give it a name. Let people know it’s not okay.
  13. Don’t let them win. Don’t let them intimidate you. Don’t let them shut you up. Find your way to power, and use it.
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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.