Feminist Ideals Contextualized Within The Reality of My Double Standards

“She smashed the whole team!”

“Yeah, and now none of those dudes fuck with her. If she was just trying to get people to like her, she really failed at that.”

“Yeah, but a woman doesn’t fuck dudes and all their friend because she wants them to like her. She does it because she wants to fuck.”

“Ya think? So many girls are out there fucking dudes because they want men to like them. They just want approval.”

“Well, we live in the feminist era now. Plus, it should be pretty obvious to every woman that fucking a dude isn’t going to make him like you or respect you or trust you. So the only reason you should be fucking someone is because you want to. Because what you’re getting out of it is something that you find to be immediately gratifying, like an orgasm. Or money. Or maybe even because you’re loved.”

“True, but I don’t think that’s what was going through her head when she fucked all those dudes.”

“I hope she learned her lesson then. Because, honestly, I fucked plenty of people and ran my way through various social circles. From personal experience, a woman should only be doing that when she thinks that each and every last one of those dudes is fucking disposable. It’s fun to watch dudes get all up in arms about whether or not a chick is a ho or if one of them has a claim on her. At the end of the day, being able to say ‘fuck all y’all’ and walk away is pretty rewarding.”

“Yeah, but most women get labelled a slut and ostracized from their social circle, which leads to feelings of depression and insecurity. A woman can’t experiment with her sexuality within a closed social circle without suffering the consequences.”

“Suffering the consequences? What consequences? That people talk shit? We only suffer if we let them make us suffer. This is just basic socializing; if people can’t handle a woman sleeping around and need to put her down, don’t fucking associate with those people. It’s as simple as that.”

“Yeah, but it’s never that simple.”

“I know. But it should be. Women should have the power do whatever they want and tell the haters to fuck off.”

“A girl can dream.”

“Yeah, I dream. Anyways, about that ho that let the whole team smash…”

Let’s Fight for Feminine Solidarity

Feminine solidarity is something that I have to work at every day, because, let’s admit it, sometimes we tend to be fucking crazy bitches. But who can blame us; we were raised in a society where were taught to hate ourselves and in turn each other. The amount of intellectual fortitude it takes to overcome one’s social programming especially when it comes to self loathing on a physical and emotional scale is insurmountable, and then being able to translate that idea into something that we can project outwards as love for other women who are struggling with the same issues is likewise difficult. But it is worth it. It is easy for women to hate each other because we see in other women what we have learned to hate within ourselves, and it is even easier to point out to other women the things that we all hate about ourselves, in turn sparking off a spiral of insecurity, hatred and mistrust. This is what we have been trained to do, and doing anything other than that feels like an act of God. But it’s what we have to do, and while feminine solidarity might at times feel like a Sisyphean feat, that is a lie. It is totally attainable, and once we have attained it, it will be worth all the fighting we have to do get there. So let’s fight for feminine solidarity instead of fighting with other women in our lives. The end result will be beautiful, and failing to attain it will be the end of us.

What Is The Value of My Emotional Labor?

I recently read this article entitled “Give Your Money to Women” that asks that women be compensated for (among other things) their emotional labor. As someone who works directly with the public to sell shit to them (booze), the assertion that women are exploited for their sexuality but never compensated for the additional emotional toil that men never experience is a fascinating one. To state that the base appeal of women already acts as a potential increase in business due to the sexual dynamics of our patriarchal society is to state the obvious; we all know that women are used as tokens in the “sex sells” advertising game.

Yet the value that is placed on our role as the icon of “sex sells” advertisement pales in comparison to the actual profit that the big boys are able to yield; namely, we are not getting paid enough to sell products that put money back into men’s pockets. As a bartender, I find this concept to be particularly interesting because my value as the token “sex sells” bartender works in several ways; firstly, there is the obvious one where my presence as a sexualized creature behind the bar lures in men who are eager to interact with a woman. It’s easy to get a higher tip from men who are clearly eager to flirt with me. On the other hand, as a woman behind the bar, the presence of feminine energy likewise makes it more accommodating to female patrons who would otherwise feel ostracized at bar that is staffed by all men. This in turn increases female patronage because women are comfortable drinking and socializing somewhere that other women in positions of power will look out for them, and the increase in female patronage in turn increases male patronage because, well, men are constantly seeking out women in this culture.

As a female bartender, it is important to me to ensure the comfort of my female patrons because being a woman at a bar can still for some of us be a statement of feminism and female independence. We need women behind the bar because we need women at the bar because women are good for business, yet despite the fact that women are good for business, we still pay women less than men, therefore giving women less spending power, and therefore decreasing their ability to show up at the bar and pay for themselves when they go out. It’s fairly self defeating, and to take the argument back to the idea that women should be paid for their emotional labor, if we view an effort at feminine solidarity as emotional labor, well, then, we should be giving women a raise. Because women certainly know how to rake in those tips.

That being said, we are living in a culture that is constantly shifting in regards to what women’s role is. We are attaining more power and striving to attain an equal amount of money. The bar used to be an arena reserved specifically for men and handsome bachelors. Now, the bar is a place where bachelorettes are able to access the same leisure and pleasure as their male counterparts. I know that realistically as a bartender I will never be compensated for my emotional labor, but if the only compensation I get is knowing that women are able to be more visible in the public sphere as independent creatures, then, sure, I’ll take it.

The Girlfriend Paradox

“This is my girlfriend, Pilar.”

We’re at a social function when I look over at him with a discernible look of confusion on my face. At first glance it’s apparent that the first thought that went through my head was, “WTF.” On second glance, it’s apparent that my long form thought process is riddled with ideas such as, “Why does he think I’m his girlfriend? Why would he say that to someone I don’t know? I think I have to stop fucking this dude cuz it’s getting to him!”

Eventually I break up with the guy, but not before kicking myself for letting this guy think that he was the only person I had been fucking for the last few months. I do whatever the fuck I want to do at all times, but I also believe in open communication. I also believe that I don’t have to yield information to my partners that doesn’t affect them if they don’t ask for it, so me fucking other people has not been brought up because a) I would never tell my partner that I’m fucking other people unless that question was explicitly asked of me and b) I’m not going to ask my partner if he’s sleeping with other people because I know that I am therefore I don’t really care if he is. To do otherwise would be hypocritical.

And then I realize: hey, this is not my fault. Titles, much like any aspect of a sexual relationship, are something that must be consented to. For someone to consider me his girlfriend without my explicit consent is a violation of my rights to make my own mature, fully informed sexual decisions. To assume that what I want is a relationship when in reality all I want is consistent sex and someone to kick it with is an insult to my intelligence and my ability to express what I want and then pursue it. I guess that’s the problem: I was thoroughly consent with just fucking this dude, but the impact of time made it so that he thought our relationship was a “relationship.” But I’m not okay with that, and he should have asked me first. Instead, he assumed that was where this was heading when really I was super okay with what we had been doing all along. If he had asked me to be his girlfriend, I would have told him, “No, I’m very comfortable with our relationship now.”

Although, the irony of the matter is that I would have respected him if he had asked me to be in a relationship with him. I probably would have said yes because I like saying yes because it feels good. However, he skipped the crucial step of being brave enough to ask me where I stood with all of this, therefore he blew it because what kind of idiot doesn’t possess those day one communication skills? Apparently this guy, and that’s not the kind of guy I see myself being in a relationship with. So…yeah.

How to Play Attention Whore on a Downtown Monday Night

“Pull over!” I scream as we’re careening down the strip in Downtown Oakland. I’m out drinking with my friends (as usual) when I catch a glimpse of someone I used to fuck lurking outside of one of Oakland’s finest downtown watering holes. It’s Monday night so, naturally, I am wasted, and running into the bar, ordering everyone a round of shots, and then dashing out two minutes later seems like the perfect remedy for my chronic social disease known as “I need everyone to see me and love me.” Of course the guy I used to fuck tries to say hi to us as we run back out, bellies filled with booze, and jump into the car. But I don’t have time for that. Instead, I am off on another excursion of attention seeking because my doctor has prescribed a healthy dose of indulging my narcissism as the proper remedy for needing constant sexual validation from men of all ilk. So we go to another bar, and I find myself skulking around the smoking room, looking for anyone’s face to jump into so I can see the look on his eyes when he realizes that I am pretty and he is overwhelmed at having the opportunity to have his thigh beneath my hand. I am really drunk, and I am texting about four different dudes right now, too. The room is spinning because I’m dizzy with the desire to be loved by the first person who will take the bait of gold plated pussy I am dangling on a string in front of the whole world.

Spring Cleaning

He’s the last thing I think about before I go to sleep at night, and he’s the first thing I think about when I wake up. I am safe in his arms, and even when I am not with him the mere thought of him makes me feel the same way: curled up and close to someone where the world cannot find me. It is a strange feeling, especially after all these years, and especially for anyone who has read this blog for any fraction of time. I am somewhere that I am not used to being, away from the comfort of my self imposed sexual chaos, lamenting my life decisions as I leap from bed to bed. Instead I am here, where things are calm and quiet, and I can hear his heart beating in his chest in the darkness on weekday nights. I know it beats for me, but I do not say anything about it because I am still not sure what I am doing here or how I got here. I am still not sure if I like it or if it will last. Or if, like so many other things in my life, these are the few moments into which I can sink my teeth before everything starts to unravel again. I try not to focus on that as I lie here in darkness, back peddling over the hundreds of stories I have written that rue this kind of stereotypical, cis, heterosexual, almost romantic, potentially monogamish behavior. I never thought I’d be here because I always thought that my ratchet thot behavior had made me immune to the kinds of things that people write about in greeting cards and at the end of romantic comedies. But here I am, nonetheless, and it is not a lie because it is happening right now. There’s something wonderful about that, so I close my eyes and whisper to please never let this end.

Page 45 of 398« First...1530...4344454647...607590...Last »

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.