Choose Your Own Misadventure

I was sitting in a room full of women, sex workers, sluts and witches when I realized: my god, this is so utterly demoralizing. In many ways, it felt like a coven of defeat. The looks on our faces. The thoughts in our minds. The things that we wanted to talk about. The things we didn’t want to talk about.

All of us together in one room started to feel like a giant target, and not in the way that it felt before. Being weird was cool. Being different was okay. Now? We feel alienated, powerless. Like our voices are becoming smaller no matter how much we scream. Even for those of us who have a voice, the sense that we are diminishing within our own society is palpable.

What can we do for each other now. How do we do anything other than run away. Where is the reminder that strength isn’t a burden. How do we find each other.

In many ways, things have always been like this. But now the veil has been lifted, and here we are. We have all suddenly found ourselves somewhere we didn’t want to be because we didn’t know that this existed for us. We thought that we had escaped. But here we are. This place has always been scary. Our illusion of escape was merely an illusion. And here we are, without any illusions left.

I don’t want to succumb to the doom and gloom. I have had too much of that already. I am sick of talking about how bad things are. I know how bad things are. I don’t need a reminder.

But we are women. We have always blossomed in struggle. Our circumstances have changed, and now things are scary. Isn’t this our time to shine?

The anxiety in the room was palpable at first, but when the speakers started, there was almost a sigh of relief. As though at first we didn’t want to acknowledge it – that we are all anxious and we are all afraid. This is why we come together in spaces like this. So that we can find each other, and as soon as we put a name to our fears, we can start to fight them, too.

Shit is fucked up. But at least we have each other.

Adaptation

I’ve been struggling lately.

I’m not sure what to do with this blog. I’m not sure what to write here.

In recent times, the entire world around me has changed. When I started this blog, we were all still talking about Occupy Oakland. No one talked about gentrification back then, and we could all still afford to be here. Talking about sex was exciting, because I was 24. Everyone I knew was excited about the future, because the world was ours.

Now? Now everyone I know is prisoner to a constant depression brought on by the Trump Administration, the tragedy of Ghost Ship, the failure of all our idealism, Hillary Clinton’s failed exploitation of feminism, the fact that none of us can find a place to live. The climate of doom in which we live has taken a toll on everyone.

Everyone I know is suffering. And because of that suffering, we have lost sight of ourselves. Of who we want to be. Of who we should be in a time like this. Because of this suffering, because of our sense of powerlessness, we are lashing out in the hope of changing our condition. But as we lash out, we only hurt ourselves. We are infighting. We are succumbing to the fracas. We are doing exactly what they want us to do: in our powerlessness, we lash out at the closest person who has power. Often times, that person is someone who is on your level, who is your peer or your equal. We are destroying ourselves.

Writing a sex blog in times like this feels trivial. I have nothing new to say about sex anymore. Writing about sex feels merely like escapism – it does nothing to effect or address current problems. Yes, we need our reprieve from this world, but reprieve and release were never the point of this blog.

I have decided to pivot. I have decided to adapt. I have decided that I need to find strength in order to carry on, and in the instances where I have found myself succumbing to the pettiness, I realize that it’s time to give up all that shit and do something new. The old ways didn’t work. They won’t work in the future.

How can we be sexy in 2017? How do we have hope? We are all facing a new set of cultural anxieties that were always possible but are now looming and tangible. How do we fight the milieu of dread? How do we have fun doing it? Where is the grace in the new stories we are telling?

I noticed a while that I had started to change as person, and perhaps you have noticed this change within yourself, too. We cannot do the same things we always did if we want to survive through this chapter of our lives together. At first, I felt like these changes were happening to me, and that I had no agency in those changes. However, I’m not going to let that be the case. The world cannot force me into a corner. My fears are not what shape me. I am changing because the world has changed, and therefore I have to change. But I am still in control of the person I will become, and I will not become someone who sits down while things get worse. I will fight the smart fight. I will not be worn down. I am seeking ways to explore agility in my state of fragility. I will not be broken.

I put this blog back up a few weeks ago, and now I am deciding what to do with it. This is an analysis of our adaptation. This is a catalog of our change. I am going to try to write it with a happy ending. I can see a happy ending out there somewhere. I have to. I need it.

Here’s to the future.

New Nudes

“Hey, so&so said he saw that drawing you did of me.”

I like it when people send me nudes. I like naked bodies. Especially my friends’ naked bodies. I also (contrary to popular belief) like to draw, and drawing my friends’ nudes is pretty high up there on my creative to do list. But, don’t worry, I’m not going to post it without your consent.

“Yeah, I showed it to you. Is that okay?”

“Yeah, I saw it. He just knew it was me. You didn’t even put my face or any identifying marks in it, but he could tell.”

“Wow, I must be getting good at this drawing thing!”

He shot me some side eye. “Nah, not really.”

“Then how did he know it was you?”

“Cuz we fuck a lot.”

“A fuck a lot of other people, too.”

And in an instance of realization we looked at each other. I smiled and didn’t say anything because I already knew what it meant – he’s been showing his friend his dick! I almost wanted to laugh. How else was his friend going to notice his dick from my chicken scratch illustrations? That’s hot.

Do I Look Good In This Sun Dress?

“Nice dress!”

I’m standing in the Trader Joe’s parking lot, locking up my bike, when – here it comes, another unwarranted comment from a stranger on my appearance. It has happened to all of us, the catcalling, the weird conversations, the desperate attempts at men to get our attention. There’s an entire culture of women out there who are commenting on their experiences and reactions. Here’s mine.

I dress flamboyantly. I get it. Bright colors, weird shoes, gaudy jewelry. I get a lot of attention for it. You might dress more modestly than I do, and you probably get the same kind of comments I do: “That dress looks great on you.” “I love your sunglasses.” “You look great today.” All sorts of comments dressed up as compliments, and I’m pretty sure it doesn’t have too much to do with my personal sense of style, which has evolved over years of thrift store shopping, perusing fashion books, working at vintage clothing stores, and even a couple semesters in fashion school.

I know that these comments have nothing to do with style or fashion an artistic expression of the self, because I know you haven’t seen the people who give me these compliments. But I have. And let me tell you – these are not well dressed people who are stopping me in the street to have heated discussions about fashion. Quite the opposite really – and this is what really gets me – it’s usually men in jeans and t-shirts. And not nice jeans and not nice t-shirts. It’s always men who dress like they’ve been wearing the same clothes for the past seven years or since whenever their last girlfriend forced them to do a wardrobe change.

I find this to be very offensive.

On the other hand, when I talk to another woman who’s all done up, carrying her Louis Vuitton purse with confidence, and clearly dressed in her own well curated pieces with a sense of style and taste – that is the person from whom I want a compliment. That woman is my equal, and she knows what she’s talking about. Or a man dressed to the nines who looks at me like he thinks he’s Tim Gunn and he knows I want to be Heidi Klum. These are the people with whom I want to discuss fashion. It’s because we are all in the same club, and we all know why we dress like this. Why we like to look nice. And it’s not to attract the attention of poorly dressed assholes who are only talking to me because it’s like they’ve just won a game of “one of these is not like the other.”

We dress well because we have self respect. Because we like ourselves and we think that we deserve to look clean and well kept. Because we have taste and style. We dress like this because we can’t help ourselves. Sometimes we want to set ourselves apart from the herd, but the point of doing that is to attract fellow single minded fashionistas. It’s to make a political statement. It’s to be pretty in the club. It’s a sport. It’s a walking fantasy in every day life.

It’s not because we’re seeking the validation of the first thick skulled man on the street who thinks that we’re doing this for attention.

Which isn’t to say that we aren’t friendly people – but it does seem silly when someone who’s dressed like a slob tries to make comments on a subject matter about which he clearly knows nothing. So, maybe – don’t?

In Love, With Flaws

I look at him from across the room, and he looks back at me. It’s the look of love: silent and unstated. I smile, and turn back to the TV while he does the dishes. It’s a strange feeling, really. This quiet contentment. Which in so many ways is so different from the chaos of dick chasing and the ceaseless late night fuckery that filled up most of the last twelve years of my life.

I almost don’t what to do with it. In those quiet moments in the night when he holds me tight like everything is going to alright. I have spent most nights screaming in pain, and I do not know what to do or how to be without the noise of my own discontent. I might not being enjoying this right. I might be blowing it. I might be itching with old habits.

Or, perhaps, even worse: I am okay with it. I am okay with the cozy nights in. I am okay with not binge drinking and waking up in a stupor. I am okay with not cringing at the boy who lies next to me. I am okay with the cute text messages and the hand holding. I like it, even. I like being in love, and not in a self destructive way where I am only in love because it numbs the fact that I am trying to slowly die. I like being in love in a way where it makes me feel like I’m so alive, and that I want to keep on living, for him, with him, forever.

However, I must admit: this does not make for very interesting sex blog content. I care about his feelings, and I’m not trying to put his dick on blast on the Internet. But I also don’t think it’s very interesting to read about how happy someone is, especially given how dark these times are.

I am watching the world go to shit all around me. But we have each other, so somehow it is okay.

Yeah, you’re right. Fuck writing about being in love. It’s not nearly as salacious as reading about some girl fuck her way through her emotional problems. But that part of my life is over, so…I guess lightly sexual feminist musings from here on out.

Sorry to disappoint.

Everyday Feminism

Recently, I’ve come into conflict with women who self describe as feminists, some of them radical, and I’m sure all of them are anti-Trump. Coming into conflict with other women is an interesting phenomenon in the feminist space.

As feminists, I assume that our intention is to support our fellow women. However, feminism doesn’t mean that we have to like every woman we meet or that we have to try to be friends. Rather, my definition of feminism when it comes to my relationships with other women means that I give other women the benefit of the doubt. As women, we have been trained in certain ways to be catty with each other. We have been raised to be self loathing of our bodies and our femininity, and that self loathing is projected out onto other women through petty jealousies, tearing each other down, denying other women a voice or a chance at credibility,  and mindless sexual competition.

One of the main tenets of feminism is realizing the disadvantages that we have as women in this society. It’s acknowledging that professionally, we have less room to grow because men look out for their own. It’s knowing that the solution to a lack of professional growth is supporting each other in the educational and professional field by giving our fellow women professional opportunities and providing ourselves with a strong and supportive network.

Feminism manifests socially in similar ways. We must approach other women with an attitude of kindness rather than an attitude of suspicion or distrust. We must treat every woman as an ally until she proves otherwise. We cannot exclude women from social spaces over petty insecurities, minor conflicts, or perceived indifferences.

This is not easy. As feminists, we have to make the hard decision to constantly be vulnerable with other women in the hopes that from this experience springs growth. We have to hope that by trusting other women, we can build a social network of strength. This effort is doubly difficult given that in many ways we have not been trained to trust ourselves, and because of that trusting other women poses a great threat. It is a constant internal battle, but it is one that is worth fighting.

Especially in today’s political climate, women, people of color, the queer community, immigrants, and anyone else who veers from the status quo is seen as a problem in our society. It is easy to internalize society’s perception of us as a problem, and as we internalize the messages about how we are “bad,” we easily begin to fall into a trap of self loathing. This breeds insecurity, self doubt, and manifests outwards as distrust, suspicion, and creates a baseline of emotional volatility. By falling into the trap of distrusting ourselves and those who are like us, we do our oppressor’s work for them: we learn to hate each other, and in that way, the oppressor does not have to put in work stripping us of our rights, our voice, or our humanity – we do it to each other.

For many people, life during the Trump administration will be their first experience of suffering. For those of us who have always suffered and always fought, the Trump administration is nothing new – it’s the same beast it always was, but now it’s come out from hiding and everyone can see it. I understand that for people who have never suffered in this way before that the act of suffering is a shocking experience. But this is what gender minorities and people of color have always experienced – we’ve been fighting this fight for a long time. We haven’t won, but we have survived.

For the people who are new to suffering, don’t worry – I have noticed. I have noticed your fear and the tension that your fear creates in previously safe spaces. I have noticed the hysteria of not knowing how to carry on in a world like this. (Spoiler alert: the world has always been like this.) I understand that this new emotional fever pitch has made you feel less sure of yourself – you’re feeling emotions that you have never felt before, and they are all painful. Perhaps you feel desperate. Perhaps you are willing to do whatever it takes to survive.

I want to let you know: everything is going to be okay. I am surviving this. My ancestors have survived this. My friends have survived this. Their families have survived it. Yeah, life isn’t as fun as it used to be. But we will survive.

Do not let the current political climate become an excuse to unravel. As I notice all the aforementioned conflicts in feminist spaces, I have noticed that the amount of infighting has peaked since the current regime change. The tension and the fear are leading us to implode on ourselves. But we cannot allow this to happen – it is crunch time, and now more than ever we need to support other women because we need ourselves and we need our support with total urgency. Failing ourselves and failing each other is just another way to let the oppressors win.

I am not going to let them win.

So, to all the women with whom I have had conflicts lately: I do not care. That shit is in the past. I am eager and willing to move on. I would love to talk to you about what we can do to repair our relationships in order to have a show of strength among women. I know you don’t like me. That’s fine. But that shouldn’t get in the way of feminist solidarity, of uniting under a common cause of resistance.

They want us to hate each other. I will not do anything they want me to do.

Will you?

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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.