an oblique & pressing lack of the answers

She has green hair, and look at her lovely sitting on the sidewalk with that cigarette dangling from between those ripe, plump lips. As a young beautiful white woman, and when I say young I mean she’s probably skirting somewhere around the age of 19. Wearing clothes that I’m sure in some way express who she is as a unique individual, but I know that when they look at her they’re not seeing the clothes at all. She reeks of naivete, but in a fashion punk kind of way, in a way where she doesn’t know about all the things she doesn’t know, and she doesn’t know that everybody else can see those things, too. Which is probably the thing that makes her the most attractive creature on Grand avenue this sunny afternoon. There’s just something so delightfully fuckable about someone who doesn’t know what’s coming to them. About taking a young innocent and just fucking her and fucking her and fucking her, and then pretending to care when she starts to talk about her daddy issues twenty minutes later. It doesn’t really matter, no one has ever nor will anyone in the future every care about her daddy issues, but the beautiful thing about it is she’ll never know so it doesn’t matter. Feigning interest for a minute while she lights up another cigarette, and she talks about how old she was when she started drinking, and whether or not she’s done intravenous drugs yet, and the quantity of people she’s slept with. They’re just meaningless statistics that don’t really stack up to a personality, but, my god, feigning interest is the key to making sure that she never finds out.

She is the glistening epitome of disposable. I wonder if she’ll ever figure that out, and realize that just because someone is sticking his dick in her, that doesn’t mean he has to care. She’s got it all backwards, and while she might feel like an empowered female for slyly smiling and walking away, the amount of things that people don’t care about is astronomical. She could have arrived in this city with the same face that she left her home with but a completely different set of lies, and no one would bother to find out that they’re lies. That they’re all just lies and more lies. Nobody cares that she’s reinvented herself into something shiny and new. It doesn’t matter. So she can say whatever she wants to say and do whatever she wants to do and be whoever she wants be, and there will be no consequences for that. The only consequence for anything she’s doing ever is aging. She’ll get older, and as her face starts to sag, and her lies start to sag, I think that the truth will start scratching from behind her eyeballs and begging to get out. But no one will be listening, and I wonder if that will kill her. Because everybody was satisfied with the lies she was telling, so there’s no point in reading her redacted version of, “these are my problems.”

She left her home because she didn’t like the history that it had given her. So she set out to make a new history, which is why she’s listening to punk rock with her headphones on, and staring blankly. It’s a coy kind of look that is begging the people walking by to ask her what she’s thinking about. Although, at the end of the day, the only thoughts swirling behind those pathetically fashionable sunglasses in some way lead back to a deep well of self pity. Some way for her to talk about herself. Her problems. Her reasons for being here, and the significance of the Misfits t-shirt she is wearing, and what it means to her. Vastly seeking male attention at any cost is her agenda, which might be clear to you and me, but what she doesn’t realize is that everything she’s ever done is for this sake. She might delude herself into thinking that dropping out of college, or wearing 4 inch stiletto high heels to hang out by the lake, or that her burgeoning interest in any one of her inane new hobbies, is about her, and her own self improvement, and her own happiness. But she’s wrong because it’s all just the impending ego validation that male attention affords her.

She doesn’t have a history, she doesn’t have a past, she doesn’t have a family, she doesn’t have a future, and she likes to say that she’s fine with that, but her ceaseless efforts to build a history, and a family, and a future for herself are evidence of her inability to overcome the most basic human need for other people a sense of belonging. So, in lieu of this, she is recklessly creating her own new, hackneyed version of the truth. Designing an empire of lies, destined to only someday become a crumbling prison. She makes art like she knows what art is, which she doesn’t.

Will she ever grow up and by that time will she hate herself for becoming boring? Fondly careening through memories of not giving a fuck, ruing the day she didn’t become the woman that she always wanted to be. She is no Jane Fonda. She is no Marilyn Monroe. She is not the center of attention, and it’s because she frittered away her youth being the type of girl that they fucked and didn’t have to care about, and she didn’t care about herself, either. There’s no “should have” in there at all, she just did what she thought was best and somehow she was wrong.

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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.