the physiological feelings of what it’s like to have a manic episode

cocaine. cocaine. cocaine. cocaine.

it’s great, it’s like i’m super high on cocaine or speed, except it’s free, and i don’t have to shovel white powders up my nose. it kinda sucks when it happens in the middle of the day and all i’m trying to do is get things done so that i can have money so that i can continue to leave the all star gutteratti lifestyle that i ascribe to. but, no, instead, all of a sudden, out of nowhere, birthed from a long week of running around and doing things, and now, after sitting on ac transit for 2 aggravating yet hip hop filled hours, here i am, at home, sitting in my room, and, oh my god, oh my god, oh my god, there are so many things i’m thinking that it’s almost stultifying. as i sit on my computer and i’m laundry listing all the things i need to do, calibrating how much time it will take, when will i have free time, is there time for me to sit down and watch xfiles while twitter beefing with people i don’t really know or should i sit down and hem that ever growing stack of maxi dresses into ill fitting ass revealing micro mini slut wear? gotta pay the bills, i should call my mom, holy shit, i just remembered so many friends i haven’t seen in so long, i should call them. i want to get drunk. i DEFINITELY want to do drugs, and while probably popping some xanax right now would be an amazing way for me to handle this all natural body high, it would probably also help me for the impending manic episode come down, aka depression, but that’s so far away, right now i’m just high on chemical imbalances. and then i start running around the house, and if anybody makes the sad mistake of trying to enter into a conversation with me, poor them, because the words that come zipping out of my mouth at a million miles an hour, an inevitably narcissistic monologue about ME & MY day, and it gets very hard for me to listen to other people. also i should probably clean my room and i think a lot very much about fucking and who i can fuck and if my insane chattiness right now is in any way preventing from getting laid. and then – oh god – and then – the mother fucking paranoia. which is only accentuated by the internet, where my adamant add and desire to constantly click from tab to tab to tab to tab while i refresh every feed, every facebook, every twitter, every tumblr, every instagram, every huffington post, every ok cupid, every email account, every social network while i acutely assess who is hanging out with whom and why i haven’t been invited because the only thing that i want right now is to hang out with other people and TALK to them and then probably FUCK them. insatiably. like a dog. but i’m so fucking paranoid because all these people and all the things that they’re saying, how does that affect me??!?! oh my god, oh my god, and so i just tweet about how paranoid i am and then i kinda also really like how my body feels, and i know that if i synthesize this high with just a little bit of cocaine and then a lot of alcohol then i will feel like a million bucks, and i will be all up in that party, any party, is there even a party tonight? i’ll find a fucking party, and i’ll talk to everybody, and i’ll look really good because part of being manic means that i’ll be ripping through my closet trying everything on and i’ll probably make a big mess which i’ll immediately clean up because i’m feeling oh so tweakery right now. then i’ll stay up til 4 or 5 or 6 or 7 or 8 or whenever in the morning because oh my god i feel so good right now. and everybody here looks so attractive, and as i’m thinking about all these things that i could do right now to make my life better, like maybe i should call my mom and i should probably talk to my exboyfriend soon about something, anything. maybe i should destroy something beautiful, and i’d like to get more money just so i can have more money not because i want to spend it, but because all those people that are making me feel so fucking paranoid with their mother fucking tweets and status updates will probably feel like shit if they saw that i had money. i mean, things get kinda hectic right about now, mostly because as i try to voraciously process the precise mechanisms of this american macrocosm and how it affects my precise microcosm, and culture, and my roll in it, and i wonder if i go to this party and not that party what people will say or even if anyone will notice or maybe i should spend more time sexting all 3 of these dudes right now because if i don’t have sex today i’m probably going to explode with frustration and seeing as when i’m manic i talk a lot my poor friends will be subjecting to the insane paranoid ramblings of why is it that this one dude this one time didn’t fuck me, was it because i’m too pretty or too crazy or too weird or too what? what is it?

okay, okay, whatever, cool, my hands are shaking, maybe i should go for a bike ride, but what if i’m peaking right now, and if i’m peaking right now that means that in 3 hours when i meet up with whatever boy i’ve conned into taking me out to dinner tonight i’ll just be sluggish and glum, and if i’m peaking, hell ya, i fucking love peaking on a manic episode, it makes me feel like a million dollars, like the world is mine, like every decision i make right now will be the right one, and everything i say will be witty and charming, and no one is as pretty as i am right now, and no one is more successful, and i can do whatever i want, and i can say whatever i want, and holy shit be manic really galvanizes this absurd superiority complex within my ego, or is it id, or is it super ego? I AM THE MOTHER FUCKING INTERNET. i’m so smart when i’m manic, it’s crazy, i just know everything. do you wanna fuck me do you wanna fuck me do you wanna fuck me do you wanna fuck me let’s get drunk drugs drugs drugs i’m manic blahhhh bipolar disorder hey party party then pull down my pantyhose i’m also a really good writer when i’m manic omg omg omg omg omg omg omg omg omg omg omg omg waaaaaaaaaaasted delusional, am i delusional, is that what it is? is this just not reality? am i just totally wrong, no, maybe the world doesn’t work this way, maybe i’m just fucking crazy, oh god, things are skewing and it’s weird, color just looks so different when i’m manic, like the colors, everywhere, they’re so bright and so beautiful, are they always like this or is it just that the neurological changes as chemicals rocket from synapse to synapse as the things i see and the things i do and the things i say, somehow they’re different, somehow they’re better, somehow they’re shinier, and pleasure euphoria hedonism feels so good flooding everywhere in my brain.

i lie a lot when i’m manic.

but that’s okay because in about 3 hours when my hands stop twitching and my legs calm down and i run out of interesting things to say i’ll probably just be sitting here, kinda drunk and coming off of drugs and alone because i’ll start to feel like shit and generally this is followed by some sort of half assed attempt at suicide because when i’m coming down from a manic episode, that’s when the voices that aren’t mine start telling me things that aren’t my thoughts, mostly that i should walk over there across the room and open up that drawer and take those pills and shove them down my throat because voices, will the voices please stop? when will they stop?

i’m scared.


Which just about says it all. She, sweeping in celestial across the gutter stained party. Like on wings, but better. Quick jab glance across the room, eyes, so eyes, murder eyes, love me eyes, round, soft, buttery eyes, from which depths flow the screamingness of everything inside her. Not a shrill sound, but, rather, just the sheer loud, volume of everything inside her, everything that you’d probably like to know about but you just can’t seem to translate it. She, creature, she, beast, she, animal, she something that is completely not human but inside that lithe body, underneath those billow clothes, among all the everyone elses who are gracing this poorly lit, slightly sweaty room, in this building in this city in Oakland.

She seems so unprepared for the brutality of the world around her. For the meanness seeping from everyone else who stands in this very room. All the cutting remarks that everyone will say about her when they get home, a sneering jealousy, the vitriol of bitter minds flaying every last aspect about her that they can. A failure to perceive anything even close to perfection, but these are the type of people who, like worms, would see the world dead for their last meal. How she can stand among it is inconceivable, how she’s not melting from the heat of pure hatred is hard to understand, but she walks among them with the poise of next year’s savior. Because there’s absolutely nothing naive about her, but the courage inside of her that protects her from all of this. The virtue inside her, still smeared in the hues of this city, and in the language of all of us, she looks like exactly everything that is beautiful about violence. She is the glory of death. She is the wisdom of failed dreams. She is the sound of a soul leaving a body. She has taken everything ugly about this world and defeated it by not succumbing to it. She knows how to lie in the most beautiful way possible, she knows how to steal to make the world a better place. She is no one’s hero, but she is our hero because it takes courage to abandon the world for the world. She has no ego.

Striking. She is striking as she walks through this room, and speaking to people the way that people should be talked to. She’s no better than the rest of us. She is one of us. Which is the thing that makes her so unfathomable, that someone like anyone else in this room could achieve such great heights of otherworldliness. Could be so godly. Could take anything that anybody in this room was given and turn it into absolutely everything she has become, in every way that she says the things she says, that she thinks the things she thinks, that she does the things she does. Which absolutely nobody else in this room could possibly do, not even if they tried.

Reeking the confidence that none of the rest of us have. But they can’t see it because they’re blind to their own ignorance. That’s okay, the grace she possesses is reserved for another world, but in the meantime, for those of us who know exactly what beauty in our midst looks like, we can imbibe it while we still can.

And she can fuck her away across this room, and she can dive down into the depths of depravity with the best drug addicts around, and she scum her way through the rest of life, but immortal as she is right now, clean, that is how we will remember her. Before the demons of everybody else’s desire to possess her and control her and dominate her and own her has taken over her life. Raped again. And again and again and again until the world has convinced her that, no, instead, she should be the one to rape the world.

None of us can save her from the terrible things she is going to do to us.

Are You That Anybody?

There’s something pleasantly delightful about wearing this bodysuit that is slightly too small for me. Tightly wound up, panties in a bunch, and I’m squirming just a little bit with my garter belt on and if it weren’t so warm I’d don one of those fur coats over there, then smoke cigarettes and masturbate, except that somebody once said that good things come to those who wait. So I’ll wait to come, which is whenever he decides that I might be awake, and he can come over, and while whatever euphemistic hangout terminology he threw at me last night might no longer suffice, just so long as he fucks me it’s all good.

It’s probably a good thing that I don’t have a real job. Only out late slinging drinks at people whose leeringly lecherous eyes are so consistently unavoidable. As I meander around behind the bar and try to make everybody think that in some way, yes, of course, yes I want to fuck you, just as a means to get a man to buy another drink and spend another dollar, and even if all I get is just the tip, well the bigger the tip, the better. Wading wearily through limpid conversations, and the pleasant art of leading someone through a conversation wherein all they do is talk about themselves. In some way my job is just to jack off other people’s egos, which, when I’m feeling particularly forlorn, I liken to some form of emotional prostitution, but when I’m feeling casually euphoric about my life I refer to it as some high brow conceptual actressing.

Anyways, I know I won’t be busy tonight, but on the nights that I am busy, I’ll probably spend the entire day biking around from here to there, buying things that I think will make me look pretty, because if I look pretty then maybe someone will want to fuck me. Although the only reason that I’m biking around today is because I have a slight inclination that nobody will be coming over at three in the afternoon to tell me that I’m dirty then fuck some sin back in between my legs. So today is another day when I feel lonely, so today is another day that I’m obsessively checking all text messages and Facebook messages and Twitter interactions, and quickly calculating in my head the amount of social interaction I will have to do with him before it becomes socially acceptable for me to throw my body on his crotch.

I don’t want him to love me, I just want him to fuck me. And fuck me and fuck me and fuck me and fuck me. Although I’m not sure if that’s entirely clear to him, because from what I’ve garnered about how other females interact with other males, the fact that I’m constantly texting him and asking him what he’s up to seems to imply, in his mind, the possibility that I want to date him. But, no, that’s not it, I don’t want to hear about his day or his problems or his friends, and I especially don’t want to hear about the other girls that he’s fucking, because even though, yeah, I’m fucking other people, too, tacit hook up etiquette states that one should never speak of the other people one is hooking up with until the eventual, “Are you seeing other people?” Because up until that point, it’s all just fair game. And I promise I’ll never ask that, because I never want to be his girlfriend, I never want to be his wife, I never want to be his mistress, I only want to be his lover. Sometimes I wonder how he feels about me using him for sex, but as one of my girlfriends once so eloquently put it, “What is he going to say? Oh, she used me for sex, she didn’t take me out to dinner or watch a movie with me, she just fucked me. Boo hoo.”

Some people think it’s a charade. Most people don’t really believe that this extreme emotional paucity can in any way be genuine, and while I admit that at some times it would be nice to have a lover that I could actually love, I’m painfully aware of the fact that a lover I don’t have to love is much more practical. Several of them, actually, because there’s some dark, animalistic urge swelling deep inside me that demands that I get fucked every god damn day of the week. Two or three times day, preferably, and while, yeah, I do need time off occasionally so my body can recover, if I had the time and I never had to work I would probably just lie around all day and watch X-Files and fuck and sleep. But I have to work, so I can’t fuck nearly as often as I’d like to, which I constantly find myself apologizing for, because heaven knows my friends have to deal with the erratic manic neediness that ensues from a chronically unfucked me. But I’m always a chronically unfucked me, so God bless my friends, and a middle finger to all the boys that I’ve been fucking recently because how is it possible that 100% of all the boys I’ve ever dated (or fucked, pick your preferred terminology) always withhold sex from me? Why is that a thing?

So I sigh and I check my text messages again. And I fantasize about getting fucked in the ass. And I fantasize about him coming on my face. And hands on skin, when will it begin, because I’m just itching and I just can’t wait. One of my guy friends once asked me how often I come when I fuck, and I told him, “75%” which, admittedly, was a generous estimation, but if you skew it to, “how often I come when I’m fucking someone that I’m not having a one night stand with and also if I’m not drunk” then 75% is a pretty accurate estimation, even if 68% is slightly more realistic. It was just weird to me to hear a boy ask me that question, because I knew that behind that question was the reality that whatever new girl he was fucking wasn’t really coming, ever. Which immediately made me feel sad, because what kind of girl doesn’t come during fucking? Granted, if he has a small dick, or he comes too fast, or he just has no clue what he’s doing, then it’s just not happening, but if a dude knows how to fuck and you’re still not coming, well then, what are you doing with your life?

Ugh, he still hasn’t texted me. Fuck.

And maybe by now you’re wondering, who is he? Hah, well the answer to that one is easy. He’s anybody. Literally, anybody.

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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.