Sex Panic

I read a couple things online that claim the #metoo movement is leading to a Sex Panic. Apart from noting that Sex Panic would make a terrific all female, riot grrrl punk band, I found this observation to be a bit trite.

I have written earlier that the #metoo movement is spurring a kind of cultural depression. These revelations are nauseating, disheartening, and shocking. Of course people are going to be sad to learn that their favorite chefs, comedians and movie makers were diddling women (and, let’s be honest, this isn’t even the worst of it) without consent. As someone who has suffered from depression, let me tell you: no, being depressed is not very sexy and it in fact lowers the libido.

A wave of cultural depression is not the equivalent of a sex panic. By using the term “sex panic,” detractors of the #metoo movement are saying that they fear that this movement will lead to a very Christian, “Handmaiden’s Tale”-esque rite of sexuality. (I read that on a comment thread on Facebook last week. Which is why I deleted Facebook for a month.) A cultural pause of sexual frivolity is not the same on a cultural shift to the modes and expression of sex.

The #metoo movement is in fact not a sex negative movement. It’s not being lead by feminists whose ultimate goal is to eliminate, regulate or socially stigmatize healthy sexuality.

I know this because me and my friends are down with the #metoo movement, which, sure, the movement has its flaws. But if you know me and my friends, you know we are not the prudes that everyone thinks we are – we’re a bunch of sexually liberated, young women; some of us are sex workers, some of us are trans people, some of us are kinksters, some of us are into traditional relationships, some of us are down for polyamory, all of us want our power back. Really, it’s ironic that people are accusing this movement of being sex negative. I was called a slut as recently as last month. And this month I’m participating in something that polices overall cultural sexuality? Jesus, make up your mind, Internet. Am I slut who wants to fuck everyone or am I trying to castrate every man I know?

Glaring inconsistencies aside, it’s worth noting that the #metoo movement isn’t about policing sexuality. It’s about dismantling the toxic power dynamic that currently has a choke hold over our society’s approach to and experience of sex.

When I see people online complaining that the #metoo movement is igniting a sex panic, all I can really think is: if you’re worried about getting laid now that rapists and creeps are getting called out, is it because the only way you could get laid was by raping and creeping on people? Yuck. This made me realize: people who think that the #metoo movement is going to cause a sex panic are probably just the same boring, basic people who think that women don’t have orgasms, or that women don’t like sex, or that you have to get a woman to say no three times to prove that she really means it. These are the guys (and pardon the heteronormative language here, I’m just using it to illustrate the common power dynamic) that have zero game, who have to get a woman incoherently drunk before they can fuck, and who no one wanted to fuck in the first place.

Hm. Maybe they should be panicked. A fair and equitable sexual landscape would mean that they would be consistently rejected and unable to resort to things like assaulting people in order to get laid.

I say: let them panic. Today is the day they find out that no one wants to fuck them. You know what that means – time to start paying sex workers the money they are due in order to scratch your itches. Stop putting the burden of getting laid on women who have no interest in fucking for free. If you want to get laid, cough up that money. And tip her, too, okay?

Facebook Vacation

Part of my new year’s resolution was take a month off of Facebook. It’s already working great! I’ve been writing up a storm, which feels phenomenal, and I’m less depressed because I don’t feel like I’m drowning in other people’s opinion of the world and, by extension, me.

The extra amount that I’ve started writing is actually pretty startling. I realize that when I started this blog five and a half years ago, Facebook wasn’t what it is today. The algorithms were different and they hadn’t used science to make us addicted to other people’s boring ass status updates. I mean, let’s be honest – Facebook is pretty fucking dry, but if you’re in any way socially or professionally indebted to the set up of our capitalist system, it feels very necessary. Which is so annoying.

Now that I’m not on Facebook and I find myself more inclined to write, I realize: I have been using most of my writing skills to talk shit on the Internet. I am disappointed in myself. Mostly because I don’t need Facebook to talk shit on the Internet. I started this blog because I had so much shit to say, I couldn’t be contained by a platform as simplistic and short sighted as Facebook. But now I realize that Facebook has started to contain me and all my rambling, incessant, incoherent, unpopular opinions. Shame on me.

Oh, and I felt so addicted to Facebook, too. Just always looking for something else to comment on or more drama. I mean, fuck, yeah, I love drama! But let’s take this drama to the streets and see who can really fight, okay? But I was addicted to Facebook in a way that was just…uncool. For example, now that I’m single again, I’ve decided that I need a new hobby. I realize that perhaps Facebook was my hobby, and now that I don’t have Facebook I can legitimately start getting into new hobbies.

I’m sure I’ll wean myself back onto Facebook eventually, but, right now, it feels great. Everyone has an Internet persona, but I get to be me, fully me, on my website, saying whatever I want, screaming into a vacuum, making myself laugh, and not having to deal with any real world consequences for what I say. This is exactly how I like it. No one interrupts me or corrects me. I just idle here, feeling cozy among the keys. Life is good.

Cat Calling Back

I was walking down the street the other day when, as usual, some guy shouted out, “Hey, you’re beautiful!” This isn’t an uncommon experience in these parts. But, I, feeling bolder than usual, shouted back, “Hey, you’re beautiful, too!” He laughed as I walked into the liquor store.

When I came out, there he was again. I could tell he wanted to talk to me, which, of course, I braced myself for. Dudes on the street love it when you sass them back, and sometimes that’s an invitation for more conversation. But I was pleasantly surprised when he said, “Hey, it made my day when you told me I was beautiful. Say it again!”

“You’re beautiful!” I cried out as I walked past him. I think we both smiled in our own way.

I wish it were that simple. Wouldn’t that be nice – what if men approached women because all they wanted was validation, and if you gave it to them with as little effort as possible, that would make them happy? I would go around telling men they’re beautiful all day if it meant that I wouldn’t have to worry about things such as, oh, you know, getting my ass grabbed, being followed around, getting hit on in a gross way by my boss, getting equal pay, not being afraid of being roofied at the bar.

Men, is that what you want? Because I will give it to you. In fact, I’ll do it right now. You are beautiful. Did that solve everything for you? Are you feeling better now? Can you stop harassing me and focus on building your own internal strength and having self respect? Please?

Of course, later that day, some guy said what’s up to me, and I, feeling optimistic about my general relationship with the men of the world, did the “what’s up” back to him. As I was walking past him, he said, “Hey, what’s your name?”

This immediately soured me to the entire idea of men being inherently good and in need of simple validation, so I had to sass back with my usual, “I don’t have a name.” That one always confuses them. I’ve actually gotten into pretty long conversations with men after I drop that line. I always have to explain to them that my parents forgot to give me a name. It’s pretty fucking funny.

So, if I can’t cure street harassment by complimenting men back, I guess all I can do is attempt to humiliate them in public. What a sport.

Another Good Old Fashioned Take Down

Ok, so, elephant in the room: my old boss got #metoo’ed in the SF Chronicle two weeks ago. Wild, right? I can verify that all that shit was true.

I know you’re probably all thinking, okay, Pilar, what’s up, what did you do this time? So I would just like to take this time to say, omigod, you guys, no it was not me! I am mere spectator of the sideshow of chaos that is now engulfing a diminishing part of my former life. If you know me, you know that I love being the spectator of the sideshow of chaos in any part of anyone’s life because, yup, I’m still an anarchist. But, I also have to admit, despite being an eager spectator, I still haven’t found the time to go out and buy a new pair of shoes. For when, y’know, I’m dancing on that dudes grave.

The reason I haven’t bought a new pair of shoes so I can dance on my former boss’s (metaphorical professional) grave is because, well…I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but it looks like that guy is going to be just fine in the long run. As someone who is close enough to the entire drama to know and hear and see these things – yup, it’s true.

I’ll admit, I find that to be a bit irksome. How can you have your name blazoned across the front of the SF Chronicle as a serious creeper and still do just fine in the world? Like, not even change a thing. He’s basically just going on an extended vacation until we collectively forget that this all happened. I’m kinda bummed.

Although, I’m not really sure what is supposed to happen here. It’s not like he just vanishes into thin air the moment we find out he’s a bad guy, like some movie super villain who evanesces into the ether. Sure, I would like for him to just crawl back to whatever cave he came from. I guess it would be nice if I didn’t have to think about the moral implications of my cocktail as I’m sitting there, sipping, trying to mack on some dude. I mean, yeah, this is capitalism, and there is no ethical consumption under capitalism, but I would like to get drunk and not have to fret about propping up the empire of some guy who makes the world a worse place for me and people like me one $12 cocktail at a time. That would be nice. I’m a dreamer.

But maybe it is that simple. You’d think that after having seen his name in big print on the front page, he would get the message. The message being: DUDE GO AWAY. Stop taking up space. No one wants to hear what you have to say. You’re gross. Nobody wants to fuck you.

Oh, yeah, that’s the new central tenant of my experience of the #metoo movement: nobody wants to fuck you, please go away. Instead of, I, too, have been sexually harassed, it’s more like: I, too, did not want to fuck him, and I, too, wanted him to go away, and I, too, suffered because he didn’t understand either of those two things. Yuck. Gross.

And then, also because he’s my old boss, and he’s still in Oakland, I know what it’s going to be. I’m going to have to see him around somewhere in the near future (because he’s probably not going to take the hint and go away), and, ugh, my skin is crawling and I’m cringing about the vague possibility of having to socially interact with him again. Have you ever encountered someone who’s been outed as a fucking creep or rapist shit head? Oh, man, it’s hard. It’s so fucking hard. It’s always just like, oh, no, please don’t see that I saw you, please don’t come up to me, please don’t open you’re mouth, I’m going to have to shun you to your face and we used to be cool on some level. Please don’t. We aren’t cool anymore. It’s so icky.

Could you imagine having an entire city feel that way about you? Sure, there are some people who understand that he might still have some money (because I hear the lawsuits have yet to begin), so, yeah, there might be some of those neo-liberal ass kissing weirdos out there who are down. But, even then, oh, it’s so gross. All of this is so gross.

Yeah, he’s going to be just fine in the long run (who will remember this or him in 20 years anyways?), but, oh, it’s all so awkward right now. I’ll have more to say about it later because I’m sure this is just the beginning. Watch out for him. He’s going to try to stay in Oakland. And he’s not even from here! So rude.

A Little Bit About My Break Up

I’m going through a break up. This one is messier than usual, mostly because it coincided with my least favorite holiday: Christmas. I don’t really know what to say about it, except that there was a lot of fighting, mostly via text message, and I am, as usual, the bad guy here. That’s okay – I’m used to being the bad guy. It’s a role I play well. Perhaps too well, given the messiness of the break up. But, oh well, I’ll take what I can get.

I cried a lot. It’s easy for me to write about it now because I’m done crying, but when I was crying it felt like fucking hell. I hate that feeling, that insurmountable, surging pain that keeps coming in waves. If I think back on it, all I really wanted in the moment was for my now ex to put his phone down, drive over to my house, pound on the door (for fifteen to twenty minutes because I’m prissy like that), then look me in the eyes and tell me he loved me and that everything was going to be okay.

But he didn’t do that. Instead, he blew me off for two weeks and told me to “just get over it” (it being the impetus of our argument and an event I’d rather leave nameless for right now). So I did. I started the long, hard process of “getting over it.” Or, getting over him.

Getting over someone is never easy, but when it’s approached methodically it works just fine. The main ingredients to my recipe for “getting over it” are time and other people. When I was younger, the “other people” portion of the recipe involved lots of sex with strangers in bathroom stalls and other slightly obscured public locations. Now that I’m older, I have a bevy of “other people” that I can call who will do the more adult thing, namely, take me out and get me drunk while I moan about my ex and decide if I’m going to fuck them or just leave it at a cordial friendship.

The ingredient of time, however, is static. When going through a break up, all I have to do is remind myself: eventually this will hurt less. I take it day by day. Tomorrow always hurts less than today, and when I arrive at tomorrow I am always relieved when I find that is true.

Now that it’s been two weeks, I have to admit: I am quite proud of myself. Going through a break up a week before Christmas is not an easy task. In fact, it’s fucking brutal. This is the worst time of year to be alone. That’s okay because I wasn’t alone. I was just lonely. I still gave him half of his Christmas presents (but damn straight I am keeping that $60 bottle of whiskey because I can drink that on my own time, thank you). But, you know what I learned from going through a break up a week before Christmas? I don’t need him. In fact, I learned that I never needed him. If I can sit and be sick in my bed on Christmas without him to take care of me or tell me he loves me, then I can get through anything. I made it through this without him. I will have no trouble making it through the rest of my life without him.

When he texted me the other day to tell me he missed me, I don’t think he realized that I am strong. Usually, when I break up with him, I hang him out to dry for a matter of weeks or months, and then I come waltzing back into his life on a whim. He always takes me back. It’s called power. And also sometimes emotional intelligence.

He, on the other hand, has no idea what is going on here. I learned at a young age that trolling for pussy or dick on social media is *not* a classy move when you’re fresh out of a break up. (I learned that on MySpace. MySpace! I would say I’ve been in the game for a long time, but, really, I’m just old now.) Yeah, he did that, and I saw it on Instagram. I mean, boo-fucking-hoo, I’m a slut, he’s a slut, we’re all sluts, so it doesn’t matter in that sense. It’s just…ugh, it’s tacky. I can’t be dating tacky dudes. I own at least two genuine Louis Vuitton purses and some Miu Miu shoes. I am too good for tacky dudes.

Of course, I am still sad. This is pretty sad. We been fucking for six years now. Anyone who makes it past six months has a special place in my heart. Actually – anyone I fuck more than once is pretty cool. So six years is pretty impressive.

Anyways, dear Internet, this is just me checking in to tell you that I am fine. The hard part is over with. And now it’s 2018, so I know you’re wondering what my new year’s resolution is. It’s: no more poor boyfriends.

Mutual Suffering

There is something about society that scares me. Or, rather, I am afraid that there is something about me that scares society.

I try not to address those fears, because I am afraid that as soon as I address those fears, I will be kicked to the curb and not allowed back into the facade of a party that society is holding for anyone who can handle it right now. Which is why I have my Instagram account, a long with a bevy of other polished yet ersatz social media accounts, starring me, emblazoned at the top of your feed, smiling with drink in hand next to some pretty person. I am here for this. I am here to belong, to close my eyes in the ceaseless parade, not knowing where we are going, but definitely going there alone.

I am afraid to open my eyes. Because when I open my eyes, I will see that I am bleeding. I will not be able to see if anyone else is bleeding – they will have their phones propped up for me to see them through, like a sequinned shield past which I cannot look. I will get dizzy.

I am already dizzy, and the loss of blood, and the pinch of pain – I am afraid that I will have to leave this party. And as soon as I leave, everyone will notice that I have opted out. I will have to squat on the curb by myself while the parade of life – whatever that means – is passing me by. I will have to sit there alone. Defeated.

They will recoil from me. When I peel off this mask with teeth laid bare. They will walk by my as hunch down in squalor, and they will judge me. They will refuse to talk to me. They will pretend I do not exist. When I stop to breath and be myself, that is when I must surrender.

I will be alone.

Which I guess is the scariest part of all. It was easier to be dizzy and confused with a mask on with the rest of them, even if none of them were my friends and none of them knew my name. I am sitting here, hoping that someone will see me and not run away.

Which is when, through the crowd, I see a monster like me. He sees me, too, through the din of the chaos of people in masks.

This is real.

I am ugly and torn down, but he is coming towards me. And him? He is repulsive, too, at least by the standards of the beautiful people. But I see him, and he does not scare me. I go to him.

We are both ugly, but we are in each others’ arms. Laid out in the gutter with our eyes open. I think this is where we belong. Here. Together. Not dancing a fool’s dance in the middle of a crowd, but quietly being ugly in this corner just the two of us.

He sees my pain. He can feel it, too, and I, his. But we do not run away. In silence, he kisses me where it hurts the most. He touches my face, with its lines etched in agony. We are real together. We make sense together. We have stopped running together. We are here with each other, and that is all we need to be. The rest of the world is passing us by, but everything we need is right here and right now. And everything is going to be okay.

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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.