Strippers in Kentucky

She’s 29, like me, and she’s part Asian, like me, and she’s on stage in her panties, squatting down and talking to me while she pops her ass for the people on the other side of the table. She’s a Kentucky native, and I’m just a tourist, but we have so much in common (according to her). I’m just enjoying the scenery and letting my dollar bills float through the air. She’s smiling at me, and she’s telling me that she never left Kentucky, and that she married her drug dealer when she was 19, and that she has three kids with him, but they divorced two years ago. I can see the scars from a c-section on her belly, and I smile. She’s pretty, like me, but she’s different from me, too. She’s a stripper in Kentucky, and I’m a tourist from Oakland. Sure, I get it, her job is to make me feel some sort of spark of connection or romance or attraction. I might be too old for that now, but she’s right. We have so much in common.

How To Unfetter Your Sexual Attraction From The Prison Of Gender

“Hey, Pilar, can you see – is that a man or a woman?”

I’m at a gay bar with some guys, and they’re cruising the scene. These guys probably identify as straight, but I don’t care enough to know for sure. All I know is that I’m not going to whip my head around to ogle some gender nonconforming femme at the gay bar because, well, this is the gay bar. GNCs shouldn’t have to be subjected to the straight male gaze in the safe space of a gay bar.

“Oh, I don’t know,” I respond. “Why, do you think they’re attractive?”

“Yeah, she’s pretty hot, but I’m trying to figure out, like, what’s going on there.”

I shrug my shoulders. “If you’re attracted to someone, you’re attracted. What does it matter if they’re a man or a woman?”

“Yeah, but, what if she, y’know, isn’t a woman…”

“It’s okay for you to be attracted to whatever you’re attracted to. If you reach a point in the attraction where you’re no longer attracted, that’s fine, too.”

“I just don’t want to, uh – what if she has a penis?”

“Well, if you’re not attracted to penises, then you’re not attracted to penises, and you can state that. At this point, however, it doesn’t matter if this person has a dick or a pussy. Just because you’re attracted to someone doesn’t mean you have a right to know from gate what their genitalia looks like.”

“Oh, uh, yeah, I guess that’s true.”

I shrug again. I, personally, am attracted to people who are wild in bed, and dick or pussy or ass pussy, it doesn’t really matter. Everyone has a mouth, and I think that’s what’s most important.

How Doesn’t It Feel?

I woke up this morning feeling indifferent, and now I’m angry at my own indifference towards the world. I am angry at the world for having failed me, for not making me fall in love with it. I’m angry at the world for not holding me tenderly late at night. I am angry at the world because there is no one and nothing that I miss today. My emotions, or lack thereof, are a tyranny that make getting out of bed this morning feel like a hapless feat. And it’s not that there’s sadness tugging at my heels – even that would be nice – or that I can’t move, or that I am crippled by the feeling of loss or nothing. There is nothing. There is only indifference, and I thought that if I were alone that the sadness would be all consuming. But it is not, and now I am angry because why didn’t the world give me something good enough to miss? How come he’s not worth crying over anymore? And, instead, I am looking in the mirror, and I am telling myself, “Buck up, little girl. There’s a sucker born every second, and I will find a new one any minute now.”

I wish I still missed him, and I am frustrated that I am okay with being alone instead.

Another Day, Another Missed Connection Part II

I was cruising through the Craigslist Missed Connections, just because that’s what I do, when I stumbled upon an ad from Downtown Oakland in the m4m section. The title: my ex boo’s first name.

Now, I cruise the CLMCs with regularity because I love the idea of lost love and the ensuing hope, and also people’s emotional outbursts on the CLMCs are top notch. At first I didn’t think it was for him because, well, m4m? Seeing as I was in a m4w relationship with him, I was a bit skeptical, but also his first name isn’t super common, so whatever, maybe it’s for him. So I opened it, and I read it, and – oh, yeah, this shit’s for him. He’s definitely popping up in the m4m on Craigslist today. Whodda thunk!

Mostly I find this to be interesting because this isn’t the first time in a matter of months that I’ve seen an ex boo’s name pop up in the m4m on Craigslist. However, in lieu of being sex positive, I’d like to state: I am not shocked by the idea of any of my former lovers being into m4m. Although I think of them as more m4t in their heart of hearts, and m4w when they’re around their friends, and m4 basically anyone who will pay for their shit when they’re looking to get into a serious, long term relationship. (I fall into the second category.) This is just part of what dating in the Bay Area is all about: we’re freaks, we fuck everybody.

But the thing about my ex boos? They really, really try to front like that’s not what’s happening. Which kinda pisses me off because their sexual shame makes everything less fun for everyone involved. Like, I know they fuck me because their friends think I’m cute, and that’s fine, because I enjoy the sex, and also we’re friends on a fundamental level so it’s not a big deal. But whenever I start to thinking: are we just kicking it because you’re succumbing to societal pressure of heterosexuality and you’d rather just be with some dude in the back of a car behind Fairyland, it makes me feel not so good about myself. Mostly because: hey, I’m down! If you wanna fuck dudes and fuck me, or fuck dudes and not fuck me but let people think you fuck me, then that’s cool! Maybe I can watch every once in a while, or we can all throw down together, or maybe we don’t have to do that, we can just be friends and you can be happy fucking whatever dude it is that you’re into today. These things just make me feel very insecure.

They also make me horny, because now I’m thinking about my ex boo getting his dick sucked by some hot, young thing behind a taco truck in the East, and, oh my god, talk about jack off material.

BRB, gna masturbate.

Sexual Attention Seeking Day 7612

I was at the bar, drinking, because that’s what I usually do, and I also I was romantically unattached that evening, so I found myself wandering around the middle of the bar in the midst of a social lull. I had been fielding sexual attention from a few different potential suitors, but this is a big bar, and there were a lot of people there, so I lost track of all them at the same time while simultaneously also trying to keep them far afield. It’s a tricky science. So I did what I always do when I’m unattached in the middle of a bar and my friends are upstairs dancing, but I don’t want to dance because I know I can do better than that: I stood, alone, and tried to look lost and slightly afraid. I figured that someone would come up to me or call out to me or offer to keep me company while I continued to weigh my options and make decisions.

And, of course, after a mere ten or fifteen seconds of looking around the room and projecting an air of general, drunken confusion, there it was.

“Hey!” from the two gentlemen at the bar.

Perfect.

I had known them for quite some time, mostly because they’re friends with a, uh, former “love interest” of mine. Which was even more perfect for me as I sauntered towards them, feeling sultry and woozy in my drunken confidence.

Now, just for the record, before we go any further, I would just like to state that, yes, I am a ho, and, yes, I have been known pick off the best friends of ex lovers just for sport and because I like the feeling of sexual power it gives me. But my former love interest (who, by the way, doesn’t even live in the Bay Area anymore) already knows this about me. In fact, he knows a lot about me. Including but not limited to my love for anal sex, edge play, group sex and all things kink. Hey, if you read this blog, you probably know that about me, too. And we’ve probably never even met.

As my conversation with the two friends wound around, we landed on exactly that topic of conversation: my sexual propensities and activities, specifically as revealed by my former love interest to his friends. And with his friends. Let’s just put it this way: my former love interest was on my level with a lot of things, which was fun, and also why I was feeling sad and nostalgic while talking to his friends. I’m also not a bashful person when it comes to revealing personal information, in person or online. Which was why a few weeks back I had been okay with said former love interest snapping a video of me all done up in my prettiest BDSM gear at my house and also very naked. (If you missed it: sorry!) These two friends had seen it.

“You’re into some really weird stuff,” the one said.

“Yup,” I said. “But you’ve been to my house and seen the shit in my room. You knew that already.”

“Yeah, you had, like, that crazy hitachi wand just out,” he replied.

“Man, I really thought we were going to have a three way that night,” I replied, reminiscing about the time that me and my former love interest and his best friend had found ourselves in my bedroom at night. “I just sat on the bed and waited for it to happen, but nothing happened.”

“Yeah, I don’t know, I thought maybe,” the first one said of our close encounter. The second one laughed.

“Hey, you’ve been to my house, too!” I said to the second one.

“Yeah, yeah, I have,” he said.

“Wait, when was that?” the first one asked the second friend.

“For the same reason. An orgy,” I blurted out.

“What! You never told me that!” the first one said to the second.

“Oh, yeah, well, y’know, it just never came up in conversation,” the second one replied bashfully.

“Uh oh. Did I let the cat out of the bag?”

“Yeah,” the second one said, laughing a little bit. I grinned. I had actually kinda forgotten about it, and I touched the second one on the arm. Yeah. We’ve been there. I looked at the first one, the one with whom I had not had a three way, and could see the wheels spinning in his head. Was he regretting not jumping in on the three way a couple weeks back? Was he thinking about what my pussy tasted like? Or was he thinking about what his friend’s dick tasted like?

I smiled. I was drunk. I had said too much. I shrugged. I don’t remember if I walked away or just wound up going home with my best friend, but all I could remember was thinking, ‘amateurs!’ I mean, not to be rude, but I know that my best friends would never go up to a guy I used to fuck and talk to him about what kind of sex we used to have. My best friends know that I just want to have the weirdest sex all the time with anyone who’s down, and they know all the nitty-gritty details of all the weird shit I do when I fuck someone. They know what his dick looks like and tastes like, and there’s not really any mystery left. Not to mention, my friends are all very sexually mature and experienced women who would never be shocked by any of my sexual activities, so there are no questions that they have for the men I fuck. They don’t really have anything to say to the men I fuck, either, unless it’s in service of me spying on them in some weird way. Fuck. I love my friends.

But, yeah, anyways, before I get off track, like, wow, how fucking rude to go up to your best friend’s former love interest and pry into what we used to do in the bedroom. I can only assume that the conversation was born out of a sexual curiosity, like a “What the fuck is that, it can’t be real,” but, yeah, I’m down to do that kind of shit in the bedroom. People like me exist.

And then, after that, they had the nerve to snitch on me to my former love interest! Which meant I had to drunkenly try to deal with a long distance emotional outburst just because *someone* couldn’t be discreet and keep their mouth closed. Yikes.

Anyways, the moral of the story is: I got the male attention I was looking for, so actually I’m pretty happy with the whole situation.

The Farce of My Love For You

None of this was ever real. Or, at least I don’t think it was. Not now. As I’m sitting here alone, and the thought of you flashes across my mind. And for the first time in a long time, this bursting, brilliant image of you, and these rewound and replayed sex scenes starring you and me, and the moments in between, and the tender text messages, and your face when you’re sleeping – I see it all again so quickly, but for the first time since I don’t know when, I feel nothing.

I feel nothing for you. This is how I feel today. I didn’t feel that way yesterday, and who knows if I’ll feel that way tomorrow. But today is the first day that I noticed that my love for you is gone. It has vanished. Disappeared. Dissipated. I’m not sure where it went – if it just flew out of me, or if it has rolled over into my love for someone else. I don’t know if now I am empty, or perhaps I have been cured of a horrible disease. Am I lighter now? Or am I lesser?

And today is the day that I question if I ever loved you at all. Because I cannot feel the love I had for you, I start to question: was it ever there to begin with? Or is today the day that I have woken up from a terrible dream where you were the monster that kept me in a prison that I built for myself and named my love for you. Was I never really here. Were you never a monster.

You are now just a person, which is shocking to me, because for so long you were so much more than that. You were the object of my fascination. My lover. My muse. My plug for dick pics. The on who made me cum the most. I couldn’t look at you without feeling – so much. But today? I might see you in the street and not look twice. Does that feel horrible?

I have to wonder if this was never really love at all, mostly because in the stories and fairy tales I have read about love, I have learned that love does not disappear like this. Love does not perform vanishing acts. Love is permanent. But the way I feel about you? It is fleeting. And I am fleeing from these faded memories I have of you and me. I am running away from the person I used to be when I loved you. I am becoming someone new, and now every time I think about you, I will start to think about something else.

Who can say what love is. All I can say is that it is gone.

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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.