I Am The Snake in The Grass

I am slithering around your ankles, in the dirt, while you, like a giant, so insurmountable, trample through my garden. I hiss while you scream. You aim for my head while I scramble towards flesh. The problem with being a snake in the grass is: as soon as you see me, I am no longer a threat. Perhaps I was never a threat to begin with, either. Perhaps you should leave grassy fields to the snakes like me. Perhaps you are the threat, and I am merely a solution.

But I do not think you see me. I do not think you hear me. I, unseen and unheard, am still punished with the pejorative of being a snake in the grass. You did not know I existed until I my teeth sank in. Me? I have been lying here, in wait, watching you for years. I have not been waiting for my moment to strike, either. I have merely been waiting for you to go away. Yet you did not.

My teeth in your flesh is not the problem in this scenario. My teeth are what feed me, and you, dear sir, have been trampling unchecked in this grass for far too long. So here I come, out of the dirt and into the heavens.

Me, at the End of 2017

Slip into chaos. Here I am, yet again, besieged by my own demons and drowning in myself. The ugliness inside me is starting to come out, yet again. Like a monster in the night, but this is my day to day. This is who I am, or who I have always been. This is what I have become in a world like this. Every day is a fight for my life, and I am a fighter who has been scarred by an insatiable world.

I am living in a paradigm that has been designed to defeat me. I make small victories in the day to day, but nothing is ever enough. This life is insurmountable. Even if I win, who will I be in the end? After I have been bloodied and broken in so many new ways. Even if I walk away from this fight, will my head be held high? Will I even be able to walk? Or will I crawl away, crying. Or will I just die trying.


While in the midst of a lovers’ quarrel the other day, he had the audacity to say that I was being manipulative. This stung a bit, mostly because anyone who is truly good at being manipulative will never be called out for it – that’s the artistry of manipulation.

Generally, when I think of manipulation, I think of lechers or con artists who are trying to cloy sex or money out of unsuspecting rubes. Manipulators curry favor in order to sway a popular opinion in their favor. Manipulators are devious beasts, seducers of sort, but just shy of coercion and a tad more graceful than peer pressure.

But this was a lovers’ quarrel. I wasn’t looking for sex or money from him. I wasn’t trying to coax him into doing something for me that he didn’t want to do. We were fighting. And I mean fighting. Via text message, of course, but on my end there was plenty of wailing and gnashing of teeth. Lots of crying, too. It was one of those fights – the kind where we both teeter on self sabotage and wait for the other person to break first.

We had reached the point in the argument when we had both broken. That’s when he called me manipulative. And the reason why he called me manipulative?

“You’re trying to make me angry!”

Okay, yeah, I was. Or, it’s not that I was trying to make him angry, it’s more that I was in an emotional free fall myself, and I was definitely saying some very emotionally charged things to him. As I was spiraling down towards rock bottom despair and loneliness, he, on the other hand, texted back with a nerve pinching cool that I did not appreciate. I hate being the only hysterical one.

When I was younger, I thought that it was best to try to walk away from lovers’ quarrels, especially if the other party was indifferent to the argument. But in this particular situation, after years and years of bullshit, I decided to throw caution to the wind. I put my cards on the table. I said my piece. And, oooh, did he get angry at me. That’s right. I said a bunch of (what I thought was) heartfelt words on how I had wanted him to be strong for me during a time of need, and how I was in pain because of how things ended, and that I had trusted him but now things had fallen apart.

He didn’t like that.

That’s when he called me manipulative. And I realized: me being emotionally honest and open during our fight is pissing him off. Me speaking my piece makes him angry. Me talking about my emotions is eliciting an equal emotional reaction from him, and now because my emotions have goaded some type of reaction from him over which he has no control, I’m manipulative.

Men and their fear of their own emotions are fucking annoying.

At that point, I figured, if he wants to get mad at me because he’s starting to feel something, meh, I’ll take it.

Now, to back it up a bit, I would just like that state that this was no average, casual fuck thing. This was a legitimate relationship (of sorts) that has spanned years. Over the course of those years, we grew to love each other. Even during our argument, I knew I still loved him. And it made me think about what it took for him to start loving me (because y’all know damn straight that I was the first one to bring love to the table in this relationship). Here’s what it took: me feeling something, and him feeling nothing, and me being confident in my emotions and my ability to express them.

Thinking back on that, I realized: yes, I have emotional control in this relationship. I am the one who knows how emotions works, how to express them, how to cope with them, and how to live with them. I am the reason he loved me, and I am the reason he’s angry right now. So, yes, he’s right: I am manipulative. I know how to push and pull his emotions in the direction I’m going. When I teach him how to love me, he’s not complaining. But when I’m in pain, he can’t handle it.

I imagine that it’s scary to have to succumb to someone else’s emotional control, in any situation. It’s scary to have less power. It’s scary to not know how these emotions work or how you’re feeling them. In the particular situation we were in, I had lost control of my emotions (due to certain common physiological factors), and here we both were: in my free fall. He didn’t know how he got here, and he sure as fuck didn’t know how to get out. But I do. Unfortunately for him, I’m going to leave him there because he’s being mean to me so why the fuck would I help him out.

But enough of the vitriol. I get it. I’m never the person who’s under someone else’s emotional control. That’s because, as a woman, I have been there before with all those manipulative, gas lighting men. I know what it’s like. And I hated it, so I found a way to never have to be there again: through my own emotional power. However, that puts me in exactly the same position as the person I was trying to escape: the emotional overseer in a relationship. To be honest, I don’t want to perpetuate those kinds of dynamics in a relationship. It fucking sucks. But here I am nonetheless.

I thought that I had been using my emotional power for good. I thought that I was using my emotional power to get him to love me. I thought that I was helping share my emotional power in this relationship. But, now that we’re here, I realize that was never the case.

He calls me manipulative, but all I ever wanted was for him to love me. If I had ever been manipulative, it was because that’s what I was doing: trying to win a steadfast, everlasting love from him. He calls me manipulative, but, ultimately, I have failed at that task. He doesn’t love me anymore.

Instead, we are falling apart and I have no idea what to say or who to be in order to make him love me again. He is too far gone. He is consumed by a rage that I placed inside him, and he cannot see through his rage to any love he might have for me. I had hoped that if he could feel anything right now, it would be his love for me. But instead, it is just rage. I wonder if he will ever be able to find his love for me ever again. I certainly can’t see it right now. Poof, it is gone, and here I am. He calls me manipulative, and he calls me lots of other names, too. And I am sitting here, wishing he still loved me. But he doesn’t.

He doesn’t love me anymore.

Who Did You Bring Home For The Holidays?

I was standing with my coworker watching two people make out.

“How do you feel about PDA?” he asked me.

“Fucking gross.”

“Yeah, making out is weird. But it’s the holding hands thing that I can’t stand.”

“Oh, god, yeah. I mean, I’ll make out with someone just to be slutty, but the holding hands is – it’s weird. It makes me uncomfortable.”

“Yeah, like, your hands get all sweaty, and then it’s like, how long do I have to wait before I let go. How soon is too soon?”

“Right! It makes me uncomfortable because if I let go too soon, then it’s like, oh, she has emotional issues. There are so many things I’d rather do in public, and have done in public, before I’d hold hands with someone. Holding hands is like, maybe after two years we can hold hands. But, even then, it’s just awkward.”

“I’d rather take someone home to meet my parents before I’d hold hands with them.”

“Hah, really? I’ve definitely introduced my fuck buddies to my family, so that’s not a good barometer for me.”

“Wait, really?”

“Yeah. My family is really chill and likes people. Plus my mom knows what’s up, so it’s cool. She knows they’re just fuck buddies, but I want her to at least see that I’m fucking hot people so she knows I’m doing well in life. I brought my fuck buddy to Mother’s Day Brunch this year.”

“It doesn’t get weird? Isn’t that like, too much?”

“Yeah, it is weird! That’s why I like it! Like, oh, wanna meet my family? Also, no, we’re not dating, we just fuck, but, hey, at least we’re all cool.”


“Yeah. It’s crazy.”

The Poetry of #metoo in Motion

I used to have this boss that sexually harassed me all the time. I wrote about it on here recently – to sum it up, it was pretty gross and involved drugs, guns, power and also he was married with a kid. I left that job, and then I got a new one.

Here I am, five years later, and my new job takes me into all sorts of bars and restaurants in the East Bay. I drove by the old bar, the one where my boss had sexually harassed me. I had heard the rumors. I knew that it had closed. But when I drove by, I noticed that there were people inside. The lights were on.

For purely professional purposes, I parked my car and went to knock on the door. I figured the new owners were in there. I wanted to meet them.

But, of course, who opens the door? My old boss. There he is, looking as wired as ever. And there I was, too, doling out perfunctory greetings. The new owners were in there, and I made my old boss introduce me. I did my little work spiel, did what I needed, and left.

After I left, I realized: I will still be working with that bar after the new owners take it over. My old boss? He’s out.

I’m the last one standing. This is a victory.

Despite the fact that my boss sexually harassed me, I didn’t let it intimidate me out of that career path. He wasn’t the first boss to sexually harass me, me nor was he the last. But none of those fuckers are going to stop me from succeeding. In fact, my goal is to be bigger and better than any of them. But – one step at a time.

1800 U A HOE

I got in a fight with, um, well, now he’s my ex. Yeah. I got in a fight with my ex. And he pulled out one my favorite lines to hear in an argument with a significant other: “You’re selfish.”

I love it when men call me selfish. It makes me feel like I’m succeeding in life. Mostly because, according to normative gender roles, women are supposed to be the emotional caretakers in the relationship. She’s supposed to nurture her partner, support her man, and clean the house. Likewise, according to normative gender roles, women are not supposed to be the breadwinners. Personally, I don’t really like conforming to society’s expectations, and my response to society is to be as independent and self sufficient as possible. I’m lucky that I can pay my own bills and buy myself nice things.

I believe in myself and my own success. I love myself, and I believe that I deserve the world. So I am out to get the world. Heaven knows no man is capable of doing that for me. So I do it. By myself, for myself.

In relationships, this can be an initially attractive quality. When the fruits of my labor are shared at a communal table, everyone is happy. But when someone is asked to leave the table – then it becomes a problem. When someone gets excluded from the feast, I become selfish. Qualities that were initially lauded by my partner suddenly become faults. A desire to succeed becomes selfishness.

I have never met a man who was comfortable with a woman not needing him. It’s grossly codependent, but it’s a desire I’ve come face to face with time and time again: every time a man starts to suspect that I don’t need him for my happiness, my financial well being, my day to day activities – it’s a fucking crisis.

The reactions vary, but in this most recent occasion, he pushed me away because he sensed that I didn’t need him. It was a self defeating solution, one that was meant to make me feel pain. And, yes, it was painful, but it was bearable. He left me alone when I needed him, and then I realized that maybe I never needed him in the first place.

I guess this is confusing for me because I grew up in a society that told me that I needed a man in order to survive. But I saw the way that men reacted to that set up – women were burdens they were forced to carry. I didn’t want to be anyone’s burden. I wanted to be an equal. I didn’t like the social contract of needing someone – it looked too much like indentured servitude. I wanted a relationship that existed not out of dire circumstances or a need to survive, but out of a genuine desire to be together. I thought that being independent would be more attractive, not less.

I don’t know if the world is ready for that level of equality. It’s hard, and it’s scary. When you give someone a pure sense of freedom in a relationship, they lose the comfort of the chains of codependency. It becomes a free fall of the unknown. Not everyone can be comfortable journeying blindly through paradise.

So, what’s the difference between independence and selfishness? I may never figure that one out. All I know is that they are both punishable offenses.

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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.