Another 30 Seconds of Urban Alienation

Buildings pierce the sky, and inside they are filled with people who are ever climbing to the top. Me? I am still walking down here at the bottom, hands shoved in pockets, not bothering to look up, or even straight ahead, but eyes shuttered down, on the ground, like a worrisome anticipation of my incoming future. Everything is gray when looking down, even though the sky shudders blue. Outside and up there I have heard about people, people who are different from me. I have heard about people who have tried and succeeded, or at least tried and gotten half way there, which is still better than where they started. I wonder if these people have heard about people like me, the ones who have fallen from grace. The ones who started out just okay but now walk down Broadway with blood full of booze and an empty stomach and an empty wallet. I wonder if they hear stories about me, grim, harrowing stories that they tell to their children in the dark as tomes of foreboding and “please do not grow up to be like that.” Perhaps my name itself is a perfect allegory for the other side of society, the slithering sinners who wear failure with pride because there’s nothing else to wear down here. I’m wet in the summer and hot in the winter because the fever of not belonging in a world like this is a sickness I will never be rid of. I am grey and sneezing and coughing and utterly alone on some sullen street corner, afraid to look up just for a moment because I am terrified to see everything I could have been staring back down at me and crushing me with its inaccessibility. So I look away, just as I always do, and hope that it will be fine for now.


The Prison of Choice

“The problem with modern technology is that there’s too much choice out there. It’s too easy to walk away from people.”

Or so says the single person at the bar. But not me. I’m pretty sure that the benchmark of American capitalist consumer culture is that our freedom to choose is a good thing. You can choose what shampoo you’re going to use, you can choose which car you want to drive, and you can choose which person you want to fuck. Choice is a good thing. (And, yes, I’m aware that citing a culture for which I have an overt disdain does not behoove me, but, however, I’ll admit it: I am pretty brainwashed into being an American consumer, and I’m sure you are, too, so let’s just roll with this one.)

Although, I know that the problem isn’t that modern technology gives us too much choice. The problem is that modern technology gives women too much choice. And people don’t really seem to like that. People are having a hard time readjusting to the fact that if a partner is not up to par, a woman can go back on Tinder and find a new one. So while people might like to say that this overabundance of choice is bad, and that people are not capable of commitment nowadays like they were back in the day, I have to wonder: who says that getting into a long term, monogamous, committed relationship at an early age after having fewer partners is a good thing?

As a woman, I have to admit that I am quite pleased with my smorgasbord of sexual options. I’d like to think it has made me a better person. It has certainly made me a better lover, and this new plethora of choice has given me (and I’m sure many other women) the opportunity to explore what it means to be a woman, what it means to be sexual, what it means to desire, to love, to fuck, to lose, to suffer through broken heart, to find hope again. With fewer sexual options, the opportunity to explore the vastness of human emotion would be different and quite possibly diminished. Fewer sexual options brings with it the expectation that we will choose and settle down more quickly. More options gives us the liberty to decide what we want, and, then, if we don’t get it, we have the freedom to say, “No, this isn’t good enough. I can do better.” More options gives us the opportunity to grow.

Of course, the opportunity to grow is threatening to men who are now being held to a higher standard. It is much easier in this brave, new world for a woman to discard a man who refuses to love her back, to fuck her right, to be kind to her, to believe in things that matter, to get along a fundamental social level. If a man is not up to par, a woman is not necessarily inclined to just deal with it, to settle, to compromise. She is allowed to point out a man’s flaw with the ultimate threat of abandonment as the solution to the problem. This, in confluence with women’s aspiration to break the glass ceiling, has released women from the stranglehold that men have on romantic relationships, which in many ways function as a prison for women who have nowhere to go, no one to go to, and no money with which to leave.

And this has nothing to do with commitment or loyalty; the accusation is that this overabundance of choice diminishes a woman’s ability to settle down or to commit to a man. The general idea is that all this choice overwhelms women, and they wind up dating or sleeping around instead of choosing a long term partner. But who’s to say that dating around is a bad thing? We are allowed to explore all the options that have been laid before us, and just because we sample some of life’s options doesn’t mean that we are ultimately incapable of making a selection at the end of the day. Sure, we risk passing up the best option at times because we are spending time getting to better know ourselves within the context of our own sexuality. But we also risk losing a deeper sense of self knowledge if we settle down too quickly. Some women may find that successive short term relationships work best for them; others have to experience it learn that commitment and monogamy is something that they truly want. Self knowledge is never a better thing.

If we’re looking at societal double standards, we see that a man who doesn’t settle down right away is given the esteemed title of bachelor. A woman who doesn’t settle down is considered a cat lady, generally because one a woman has gotten too old and outlived her sexual utility, she offers nothing to the world other than to care for cats. But this new plethora of choice is dispelling that myth; there are plenty of Samanthas out there.

Perhaps the abundance of choice becomes reckless when men are held to that higher standard and women are not. This, surely, is problematic: that women are too drunk on choice to evaluate the double standard. I’d like to think that we are better people than that, but, then again, each woman is on her own journey. Every journey looks different. Not everyone will have the luxury of ending this journey better than when she started. But giving women the opportunity to do so is what matters.

So, ultimately, the problem with too much choice is that it gives women the opportunity to acknowledge their own power. I’m not threatened by that. Are you?

In The Desert of Desire

These text messages are meager. They are few and far between. They are dried up and croaking, coming crawling into my inbox bearing nothing but the corpse of a relationship. They are insipid, and between every syllable lies an unmistakable truth: there is nothing here. There is no meat in these words. There is no soul in the conversation, which reads like a mundane, mechanical shell of small talk. We are lovers, or at least we used to be, but we have run out of things to say. We have not forgotten that we should talk to each other still, as though this polite formality of mild pleasantries will somehow make things better or cover up the fact that there is nothing left to say. There is no more fucking to be had, either, but stopping talking completely seems rather rude, so here we are. And how is your day. It’s strange, really, to look back and think of all the times he has seen me naked and cumming in so many ways in the middle of the day and beaming and bursting, only to see his name pop up in my incoming text messages with yet another hollow and perfunctory typing of letters into words that I will read and feel nothing for. I don’t know when was the exact date that the passion drained out of everything we were doing, but all I do know that now that we’re here, I feel stale and gray. Not by myself, but when he’s in my mind. My lust is parched, and we are in the desert together. I wonder how many other people it will take before I feel wild again, and how do I tell him that my pussy throbs for someone else now. Or do I say nothing at all, and let the vultures pick this one apart, gasping and gulping in the dry heat of desirelessness, picking apart the bones of yet another parched and desiccated love affair.

I Did Sex Work To Support Myself Through Law School by Tina Dolgin

Check out this beautiful post by Tina Dolgin, ‘I Did Sex Work to Support Myself Through Law School.’  Anyone who is interested in sex workers’ rights should check out her work with Red Light Legal, which is currently doing a fundraiser to raise funds for her non profit legal endeavor. Here’s a good reason to donate and read:

Despite increased media coverage and policy discussions about sex work-related issues, harm to many in the sex industry is increased. Rather than providing greater access to food, shelter, and health services, those combating mainstream definitions of “trafficking” are calling for increased criminalization of those in the sex industry. While innumerable counties now label some sex workers as “victims,” police departments are given wide berth to execute “rescue” operations where they extort nude photos and handjobs from people before placing them in handcuffs.

I want us to have greater power in fighting all of this.

The Inadequacy of Love

I love him, but he doesn’t love me back, although that’s not what concerns me. What bothers me as we’re sitting here, and I’m loving him, and he’s not loving me back, isn’t any of the above statements, but, rather, the fact that he doesn’t really seem to care either way that I love him. He is indifferent to my love, which is tumescent and bulging within my heart. My love, which is loud and brilliant and creating a rather undeniable din within my mind and my stomach, but he is sitting there, immune to the effects of my love in his life. He sees it, and he looks away. He sees my love. I am giving it to him, and he is leaving it on the bar top, getting up, walking away, and forgetting that I ever put it in his hand to cherish forever. I think it would be better if he were at least to take it with him, to walk around with my love in his pocket, to spend it recklessly, to fritter it away, to lose it in some bar bathroom or forget on the bedroom floor of some bar floozy, only to come back the next day seeking desperately for the love I gave him that he lost in the night. Perhaps it would be better if he said, “No, I do not want this. Keep it for yourself. Give it to someone else.” But he doesn’t do that. Instead he takes it, and he leaves it here, as though it were nothing. As though my love were a pittance, an insignificant trifle that can be left on the bar top and thrown into the trash by some nonplussed bartender. While I, silently in my corner, hold back the weeping that will come back to haunt me in the middle of the night when I am good and drunk but still alone. My love means nothing to him, not for a moment. But that is okay, because my pussy still matters one or two nights a week for a handful of hours at a time. I guess I will take what I can get, which is orgasms that are loud and smeared all over my bedtime sheets, bursting and smelling so much like love but in reality being nothing even close to it.

The Capitalist Fever Dream

I do not really believe in revolution, but I do believe in fervor. I do believe in mass hysteria. In mania. In the chaos of convenience and all the ensuing pain that comes therein. I believe in the collective histrionics as collected on social media and then reworked into a one unending stream of screaming that never ends, cannot be stopped, and is beautiful in its own regard. I believe in all of us. I can see the fear in our eyes. And I can hear every last one of us waiting for someone to stand up and scream, “This is not okay!” But perhaps we are waiting for someone to sit down and whisper, “We are all going to be fine at the end of this, and here’s how.” It is easy to buy face masks and used cars and make monthly payments for streaming apps that we barely use. Ultimately, capitalism is comforting, but indulging the collective insecurities that come from living in a society like this is just as exciting, too. Perhaps one day we’ll figure it out in a beautiful parade of equality and justice. I mean, probably not, but dreaming is an honorable hobby, so we might as indulge that while we still can.

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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?

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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.