Cuffing Season Is Over

I realize this as I look at my phone and the incoming text messages from both men and women alike read like a sad sack saga of how that special someone that we called bed mate even through the last of the rainy season is now no longer sexually available to us. Or vice versa. I do the math quickly, and then it hits me, like the first day of spring: oh, yeah. Cuffing season is over. This is an ode to your break up and everything beautiful it implies.

We all know what that means! This means that me and all my friends have unshackled ourselves from the Thanksgiving-Christmas-New Years-Valentine’s Day four month holiday mating ritual of having someone to Netflix and Chill with on those short, cold, dark winter days. Ah, yes. Spring is here. And it’s time to fuck someone new. Of course, we must get away from the person who is probably hoping that this demirelationship was going to last a little bit longer than the cuffing season of 2015-2016, but, nope. Here we are, and it’s time to break out those daisy dukes and go day drinking all the way until last call, right until the moment when we fall into the arms of some new, fresh looking young thing. So that we can recreate last summer almost perfectly in an attempt to revalidate our sexual worth outside of that pesky thing called a relationship.

Cuffing season is over, and all my friends are back at it for the new season. Who says that humans don’t mate for life? We’ll be mating for the rest of our lives, or fucking, or whatever. We just happen to obey the laws of nature that state that as soon as it gets nice outside, it’s time to primp and preen and on to the next one. I’m sure I’ll be seeing all of you out there within the next couple of weeks. Everyone is newly single, and you should be, too. Come fuck with the rest of us. Come fuck with the best of us.

Q: How Much Would You Pay To Live In A Slice Of Oakland Party History And Not Even Know It? A: $600,000+

If you don’t know what Loco’s Only was, then this post isn’t for you. Also, if you don’t know what Loco’s Only was, you’re probably not in my social circle, there’s a high possibility that in you’re in the finishing stages of being a day one gentrifier, or you’ve spent your time in Oakland not being cool. That’s fine. Move on.

However, for those of us who do remember Loco’s Only, we remember it exactly as it was: a disgusting, disturbing, dirty party house filled with shady people, empty beer cans and enough shitty graffiti to cover the freeway underpass ten times over. It was the domicile of our wayward youth, a place to get fucking drunk, to fuck other people, to party, to scream, to cry, to shoot up, to fight, to founder and revel as an artsy twenty something in 2010. It was a quintessential party house on MLK Jr. that housed some of our favorite people and some of our favorite memories.

Loco’s Only has been empty for almost four years now; the last stragglers who were so dedicated to squatting in that crumbling shit hole left long ago. The epic parties that took place within those walls, all the drugs, all the violence and scandal of being young – all of that is merely a memory, baked into the walls and shifting beneath the surface. The house itself has been bought and was renovated, and it sits on the block looking shiny and new and for sale at $600,000. $600,000 That’s right – that shit hole house got a new paint job and now some family is going to pay more than half a million dollars to live in a puddle of our Oakland memories. Someone is going to pay six hundred thousand dollars to sleep peacefully at night in the same rooms where we had cocaine freak outs and shot up drugs. Someone is going to cash out to live a block away from the freeway underpass, surrounded by drug dealers and drug addicts, around the corner from a Mexican grocery store and a soup kitchen.

Look. I would be less incensed if someone had scooped up our household of failed dreams for maybe half that price. That makes sense. But $600,000! That’s a lot of money! That’s more than anyone who ever set foot in Loco’s Only would ever be able to afford. There is some steel reinforced irony here, and it is shattering all over my fucking head. People of Oakland, the artists, the musicians, the party goers – they were living there for free. And now some asshole wants to pay $600,000 to live in a city that is clearly just a shadow of itself. We have traded in our all night romps for polished cocktail bars that close promptly at 1:45 am. What is this all coming to.

Sexual Nostalgia in the Face of Danger

The friend of someone I used to fuck is hitting on me on the Internet, which is fine because those things happen, and I’m pretty adept at dismantling unwanted sexual approaches. He’s telling me I have a nice ass (he’s right, I do), and I’m responding by saying, “Why don’t you ask your friend about my ass. He used to spend a lot of time there, and I’m sure he’ll tell you all about it.”

While these kind of benign flirtations usually make me feel very little or nothing at all, the fact that all of a sudden this guy I used to fuck is taking up real estate in my daily thought process is beginning to irk me. Not because I dislike him, but just because these kinds of unscheduled emotions can threaten to derail my entire day as I sink back into sexual nostalgia and newly blossoming sexual fantasies that play out in my mind like some half written movie script that I am itching to bring into production in real life. It starts off innocently enough; me wondering what would happen if he knew his friend was breaking bro code by trying to bang his old piece. I kinda wanna text the guy I used to fuck, “Can you tell your friend what my pussy tastes like, because he’s dying to know but he’ll never get the chance to find out first hand.” Of course, the mere thought of texting him is sparking off a chain reaction in my mind of what exactly would happen if I reinitiated contact with the flame of summer 2015. Things have changed a lot in the past eight months including but not limited to my return to school, a couple of highly fulfilling therapy sessions, and my decision to pare down to merely one sexual partner who is nice to me and talks to me every day. I realize that this one Facebook message from someone who is once removed from the chaos of my sex life in summer 2015 represents a potential tipping point where – if I decide to cave to temptation – could unhinge everything good that has been going for me in the past few months. Not because I know with any certainty that any contact I initiate with him will result in another summer 2015-style affair of sexual decadence and narcotic indulgence, but because I am a fiend for all those things, and any taste of temptation could send me reeling back into a world of decay and chaos, whether it’s with this guy or with someone else or even completely alone. So, in conclusion, I shouldn’t talk to him. I shouldn’t do anything. I shouldn’t say a god damn word, mostly because my life depends on it, because as soon as I remember what it feels like to live like that, I might go running back into the arms of any demon that will take me.

Of course, there is a scarier option. That option being that a glimpse back into that old life will not inspire self destruction on a grand level, but, rather, that if I look back into the eyes of the person I used to be, perhaps the scariest possibility is knowing that I am happier now, and I am content with this life, and that glamorous me who I used to be on drug binges and sex romps is never the person I truly was. It was a sham all along, and things can get better. But that is the scarier truth because if things can get better, how good can they really get? Perhaps there is no limit to my happiness, or any limit to anyone’s happiness, except the ones we put there ourselves. And it is up to me make myself the happiest I can be, and that is scary because where does it stop. And how hard will this be.

On Human Sexuality

I take it back. Upon further review, because men have hijacked the media and therefore the sexual messages that are propagated to the masses, the legacy of monogamy and female submission within the relationship is accepted as the status quo. It is in spite of the fact that men control media messages about sexuality that women still overcome and manage to band together to undermine this patriarchal mentality. It is a testament to the tenacity of women that we still find ways to thrive even in the middle of a world that shows us inaccurate reflections of ourselves, telling us that we should be cooking and cleaning and raising the kids for free.

I recently watched a documentary from the 1990s that firmly asserted that men are more prone to cheating than women. This documentary also stated (as though it were scientific fact!) that men are more sexual than women and think more sexually than women. This is something that I grew up hearing, but based on my personal experience, this is simply not true. If we look at the state of male sexuality in a male dominated society, we see that, of course, men would take the reigns of sexuality away from women. To give women sexual power stands to threaten men’s overall social power. Therefore, reinforcing the overall idea that women are less sexual stands further the agenda of male dominance.

This documentary also stated that women seek men with resources whereas men seek multiple sexual partners to spread their seed. This statement might be true in contemporary American society, but the main reason that women seek men with resources is because women are denied those resources. It stands that any person with less means would seek out a partner with more means in order to further opportunities for their offspring. One has to wonder: if women were given equal or perhaps even greater resources in this society, how would that statement hold up? If women didn’t have to “trap a man” in order to give their children a better chance in life, and if women had the means to rear their children on their own with no emotional or financial detriment to themselves or their children, what would be the role of the man? If men were less socially affluent than women, what would be the role of a man?

On the other hand, the theory that men are trying to impregnate everything in their path is likewise suspicious. There are 7 billion people on this planet, so it goes to show that different cultures have evolved differently. Surely, we see some men who might fit this pattern, but there are also plenty of men out there who stick around to rear their child. Surely, it defies evolutionary theory that a man would impregnate a woman and then abandon her, especially given woman’s economically inferior status, because abandoning the woman diminishes the man’s offspring’s chance of survival. Instead, if we look at human sexuality in the context of the fact that there seems to be a trend towards a period of life wherein both men and women sleep around and experiment sexually – you know, the “slutty phase” and involvement in casual sex – after which partner selection occurs, perhaps promiscuity isn’t necessarily about procreation in the modern era, especially given the influence of both birth control and the propagation of sexual imagery which reinforces the desire for promiscuity as a natural expression of sexuality.

Looking at human sexuality from a biological standpoint is difficult, especially given that we are more than just mere animals and the influence of our society greatly impacts the expression of our sexuality. For some reason, it is taken as fact that long term monogamy is a good solution, when really the only reason that anyone would believe that is because it is sold to us in TV shows and glassy magazine spreads. Long term monogamy is the zenith of romance, yet for some reason so many people aren’t attaining it. Perhaps we are being sold something that can’t be bought. And then anytime someone does something that strays from the prescribed plot line of long term monogamy, we are told that is deviant and errant and wrong and inhuman. But, really, if someone is doing it, then it necessarily falls into the scope of human behavior, and therefore it is necessarily human and potentially a part of all human experience. Taking this inclusive view to human sexual behavior rather than trying to figure out why everybody isn’t in a long term monogamous relationship, and then in turn validating every expression of human sexuality as a part of the human experience without saying one mode of sexuality is right and the other is wrong – maybe then we will have a better understanding of why we are the way we are.

If You Were Having the Best Sex of Your Life, How Would That Change Things?

“That was some bomb ass fucking,” he says, putting himself back together before heading out the door.

“Yeah, it was,” I say from my pedestal of repose, still naked beneath these sheets.

“I think…that was some of the best sex I’ve had in a while. Or, in recent years,” he says wistfully. I smile, too, as I feel us dipping back into the shared memory of the shared experience that was me, just a few hours ago, with my ball gag on, and the belt around my neck, and the butt plug in, and the hitachi wand on, and him fucking me from behind with my face in the pillows and him watching himself in the mirror.

“Same,” I reply, still feeling the tightness around my throat and closing my eyes with the memory of rolling orgasms at 7 am still sending shudders down my spine. We look at each other, and then we look away, because he has to go right now.

“You know, I never put effort into fucking people. I usually just lie there. But with you…I don’t know, it’s different with you,” he says, still gathering his things at 1 pm on a Thursday. I laugh at that, mostly because I know what he’s talking about. What’s the point of putting effort into fucking if there’s no pay off?

I realize that the sex I have with him is the sex I’ve always wanted to have. I’ve fucked plenty of people in my day, so I know that sex like this doesn’t come around very often. We’ve been doing this for a few months now. On and off. Inconsistently for damn near a year. And that’s the thing about sex – you don’t get to sadistic, multiple orgasm, hours of cocaine sex right away with somebody. That takes time. Sure, I can usually tell from the first fuck whether or not there is the potential to have that kind of wild, all night sex with someone, but actually getting there – that takes patience. It takes building trust. It takes really liking a person even after all that time. There are certain levels that must get passed through before attaining the fifth echelon of fucking with someone. I certainly didn’t start out by having multiple orgasms with him, but, now, here we are.

If anything, I’m pleasantly surprised by how the sex has managed to evolve even throughout our inconsistent love affair. Sex in public, group sex, kinky sex. With most partners, they seem to give everything they have at the beginning of the love affair, and the sex tapers off and gets boring. But not with this one. With this one, the sex keeps getting better and better. Even months and months later, there are still surprises. There are still new things to try.

But all of this is unrealistic. I realize that I’ve found the unicorn of fucking, but of course everything comes with a catch. The catch here being: no one knows what the future holds. Especially with him. He could be whisked off to somewhere far away at a moment’s notice. He is unstable. He is unpredictable. He is inconsistent with his emotions and his availability. I could fuck him forever, but he will never be my boyfriend. I am having the best sex that I have had in a long time, but it is ephemeral and fleeting. It exists only in the moment, and then it is gone. Possibly forever, which is why I would like to hold on to it, but I know that is pointless.

I watch him walk out the door to go live his life without me. I wonder how many times today he’ll think about me. How many times he will play back our fast fucking at the break of dawn in my sweaty bedroom. I wonder what he’ll tell his friends he did last night. I wonder, although I know that the answer to those questions is pointless, mostly because in the modern era, what is thinking about someone worth if you’re not calling or texting? He won’t call or text me any time soon, but I will see him around. We will run into each other casually at bars, and then go back to my place to fuck again. Maybe. Probably. But he will never call or text me, because he doesn’t call or text me. That’s not what he does. That’s not who he is.

Perhaps there is someone else out there who can text and call me with some level of consistency, but I realize that anyone who does that probably isn’t going to be able to fuck me with the emotionally detached expertise that somehow makes this kind of fucking so good. Because there’s a certain modicum of cruelty and lovelessness that goes into the desperate, coked out, all night fucking. And it occurs to me that the level of criminality that is necessary to know how to fuck a girl like me with that kind of prowess – that there’s a certain level of violence that a person has to be okay with before fucking a woman so heartlessly.

He is my demon lover, and I succumb to demonic sexuality whenever he is around. He isn’t around very often, which makes me think that my soul still has a chance for salvation, but when he’s here, he is ruining me for all other men. Inch by fucking inch.

Another Day, Another Dick Pic

I’m sitting at the bar, pretty drunk and far away from home, feeling horny as usual, when the genius idea to ask for a dick pic from my paramour crawls into my head and explodes. Ah, yes, the golden inspiration of alcohol, egging me on in my quest to “take it to the next level” with this guy: does he trust me enough to send me a picture of penis? Really, I think he should, mostly because I’ve been sending him nudes from pretty much day one. What can I say; I look good naked, and I don’t want him to forget, so I take photographic evidence and send it out to various people throughout the week. I feel like this should be reciprocated, especially because I know it’s going to be at least an hour before I get home and get the real deal. So, fuck it.

I’m lonely. Send dick pic plz I text with my usual eloquence.

The response that I receive in mere moments is a fairly elaborate and boring translation of “no,” which leaves me feeling dejected and rejected in some stupid bar in San Francisco. Ugh. San Francisco. Why did I even bother coming here. Why am I still here. I traded in my one San Francisco fuck buddy a year ago, and now I have no sexual options here and a trek and a BART ride back into the arms of someone familiar. Heaven forbid I try to pick up someone in San Francisco. Ugh. Yuck. Gross! Could you even imagine getting naked in front of someone who hangs out in San Francisco, let alone suffering through an entire conversation with someone who thinks it’s cool to pay $14 for cocktails? Gag.

So, instead I am left to ponder what is wrong with this guy. Why won’t he send me a dick pic! I send a couple beaver shots to grease up the deal, just, cuz, y’know, fuck it, why not. I’m pretty drunk. Might as well send some pictures of my pussy. He fucking loves that thing. He spends a lot of time there. But, ugh, no dice. That doesn’t sweeten the deal. How about I try to wheedle my way into receiving a dick pic with a little bit of flattery. Since he’s asking why do you want a picture of my dick?

It’s my favorite dick and I miss it I respond, hoping that overly ingratiating compliments get the job done.

Well then come get it

I’m an hour out at least. P L E A S E

Ugh. I do not like to beg. I mean, I like begging when it’s one of those special situations where he’s making me beg because it’s hot. But I don’t like begging only to ultimately suffer rejection. Oh, shit. I’m being rejected. This isn’t an even playing field; he doesn’t want to send me nudes because he knows I’m going to show it to my friends (fucking duh), but he has so many nudes of me! Gosh. I wonder if he shows the nudes I send him to his friends. I mean, I hope so. What’s the point of sending nudes if everybody isn’t looking at them? That’s the whole point, right? So that he shows his friends, and then his friends can realize, damn, he’s fucking with a real one. I wonder if he even tell his friends how good I am in bed. What if he doesn’t tell them! My god, what’s the point of fucking someone who doesn’t brag about it to his friends! Doesn’t he want them to be jealous?

Now I’m getting angry. I can’t believe he doesn’t trust me with nudes. Or, maybe it’s that he’s ashamed of his dick. Or he doesn’t want to take pictures of it. (That’s ridiculous; taking pictures of your junk is a standard of sexual exploration for our generation.) Well, whatever it is, I’m incredibly offended that my fairly benign sexual request is being denied. Come on! If he can’t send me dick pics, how is he going to handle it when I tell him that I’ve found a bi guy that is probably both of our type that I would like to watch him fuck in the ass? I’m beginning to doubt myself. I was going to dress up like a dog and get a dog tail butt plug and crawl around his house barking for his birthday – what if he’s not into that! My god! Who is this person! What am I doing with someone who can’t send dick pics!

God damn it. I know what’s happening here. This is not good. This low level sexual rejection is about to spark a chain reaction of insecurities and petty revenge that is going conclude with the ultimate demise of this relationship. It’s going to be the same thing that happens every time; I’m going to feel super insecure about my sexuality because of this. So I’m going to overcompensate by doing other outlandish sexual things just to feel the thrill that I need in order to get off, and my erratic sexual behavior is going to make him feel threatened and emasculated because the amount of sex and the crazy sexual things I do are more than any man I have ever met could ever handle. Then, his inability to fulfill my unreasonable sexual demands is going to make me feel unwanted and dirty, which will in turn inspire me to start having tons of casual sex with random people at bars again just to feel good about myself, which is exactly what I’ve been trying to avoid for the past few months.

This is not good. I am not happy. I don’t know why he won’t send me just one stupid dick pic. Why is that too much to ask for! It’s 2016! This is what our generation does! This is how we show affection to our sexual partners! By sending beautiful, well lit pictures of our genitalia to each other. But I guess that’s just the thing, isn’t it? This guy doesn’t want to show me affection. And that’s a fucking problem.

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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.