The Horror of Other People

Meeting new people and getting to know them is just…horrifying these days. Which is a pretty unerotic sentiment, I know, but it’s just how I’ve been feeling lately. The idea of spending time with someone I don’t know, trying to get to know them, weathering the disappointments of their intellectual and emotional shortcomings – it just seems exhausting.

Sure, I could fathom getting a drink at a bar with some anybody today. That’s fine. But the idea of letting some stranger into my life – that scares the shit out of me. Perhaps it’s because I’m exhausted from hearing people bicker about nazis on the Internet. Or perhaps it’s because I’ve been disappointed fairly frequently in the last year, both by people that I have just met and by people whom I had loved for years and years. It has become easier to suffer in silence and isolation than to dare to let someone scar me yet again. I have no more room for scars on my heart. This thing is all used up.

Yet I go out into the world nonetheless. I do it every day. And I hide the pain that is cradled deep down in my stomach. I do not want other people to see it.

My pain is the reason that people have abandoned me.

I have shown other people my pain, and they have run away from me, screaming. Which perplexes me, because I live with my pain on a daily basis. I sit with it every night and every morning. It is a part of me. It has formed me into the person that I am today. Yet when I show it to other people – they are gone, in an instant.

I wonder if it is because they are weak. Because they do not know how to handle pain. Not even their own pain, which is tantamount to mine.

There is terror in other people’s pain. In seeing it and having to swallow it. How do you reach and touch a person in pain? What is the right thing to say? What is the tender thing to do?

I am not asking anyone to solve my problems. I am working on that right now. I am just asking you to be okay with my problems. I am sick of keeping them cooped up inside my stomach. I would like to let my problems out for just a little bit, so I can breath for a few minutes while they leave me. Don’t worry – they will always come back to me. They will never be your problems. They will always be mine. But when I let them out – please do not recoil. Please do not grimace and walk away. Please do not leave me here, left to clean up this mess on my own. I have been cleaning up this mess for my entire life. I am doing the best I can, but it is hard work.

Life has not left any of us unscathed. Show me your scars, and I will show you mine. These scars are not an indicator of the amount of pain that we will experience together but, rather, a symbol of everything I have survived so far that has made me who I am.

Stagnant

I am barely holding it together.

I know it’s called depression, but it feels like so much more than that. It feels like so much more than just a sadness in my mind. It feels more inevitable than that, more relentless. It feels like gravity – or whatever natural force that acts like a magnet keeping me here, in bed, unmoving, unfeeling, disinterested.

As I lie here, I can remember the person I used to be before I felt like this. She is a distant memory like a close friend. I can remember when I used to get out of bed in morning, when I used to run around all day, when I used to have people to talk to and things to do. I could pay the bills in a timely fashion, and when things fell to shit I could hold it together.

Now? Now the tiny details are seeping into chaos, and I feel powerless to stop them.

Maybe that’s the ringer: a sense of powerlessness that is pervasive, and now I don’t even know if I should get out of bed and go to work today. I could just stay here. I feel powerless, and I would like to be invisible, too. I would like to opt out of being a cog in this machinery which really just feels like a fracical Rube Goldberg machine whose sole purpose is just movement and then nothing.

Every day I wake up and hope that today is the day that I stop feeling like this. That I can feel some sort of purpose in this society, among these people. But every day I have been waking up and I still feel crippled my this sense of powerlessness. As soon as I open my eyes and realize that today isn’t the day that my depression has gone, all I want is to go back to sleep and sleep and sleep and sleep until I can wake up and stop feeling like this.

How can I stop feeling like this. Sleep has not cured me of any of these anxieties.

In the Realm of Change

I wound up rifling through the archives of this blog looking for something specific, and instead I launched myself into a vortex of nostalgia. It’s strange, really, to have something as tangible as a blog through which you can see your former self. Or, I see my former self. I guess most people have Facebook posts and Instagram feeds that can trigger a warm wash of memory, but for me it’s a whole slew of radical, self deprecating, punny posts.

I don’t like change. But I have definitely changed over the years. Rereading something from 2013 is just a reminder of how carefree youth felt. I’m trying to grow old gracefully, but this is not a time for grace. This is a time for horror and war. It’s not so much that I’m uncomfortable with the change within myself but I’m uncomfortable with the change that I have been forced to go through in order to figure out how to continue surviving.

I’m not the same as I used to be. Neither are you. Things have definitely gotten worse. It’s not that I don’t like myself as much as I used to, it’s that I don’t like that I have had to sacrifice a certain sense of comfort or order in the world. This has made me feel ugly. I don’t know how to be a beautiful person in an ugly world. My only idea right now is to find delight in the grotesque.

Who am I when the world is like this. What will I become. I fear that by the end of this I will be irreversibly ugly. I am afraid that war will not be kind to my spirit or my body. I am afraid that the fatigue will show on my face.

But it’s more than that. It’s so much more than the superficial. What I’m really afraid of is that we will lose ourselves in this war, and we will forget how to love each other. I am afraid that by the end of this, I will be unloveable. Or, worse, that I will not remember how to love. That I will forget to be vulnerable, to be kind. I am afraid that this fight will never leave me, and I will always be on my toes, running from a bullet that I hope will kill me.

I am afraid of disintegrating into sand. That the person I am now is something we are all already trying to forget. That we are trying to run away from right now, and in running away we abandon each other. I am afraid of how alone I will be. I am afraid of losing you.

I am afraid I have already lost you.

Power

It’s a modern day paradigm.

Having been a radical for the entirety of existence, abuse of power has been my archetypal nemesis for as long as I can remember. However, as I get older, I find that my relationship to power is necessarily changing. When I was younger, power was unattainable. By being unattainable, power was alien and something that I didn’t fully fathom because I didn’t know how to attain it or even wield it.

As I’m growing older, power becomes more attainable. I find myself in a possession of a modicum of power – mostly through my social standing and through my professional pursuits. I have the power of this blog. I have the power of writing for the local paper. I have the power of owning a car and having a lease. I have the power of being a seasoned professional in my field.

As I attain more power, I find that my disdain for power stays the same but my access to power increases. This creates an internal paradox – attaining power in the pursuit of survival is a side effect of having lived this long. One part of me feels like I should abandon all my power because to have power while being critical of it is hypocritical. However, I then remember that just because I believe in something and I find myself at a crossroads doesn’t mean that I should punish myself or suffer in the name of ideology. There has to be a smarter way to deal with this.

So this is how I deal with it: as I attain power, I find a way to constantly undermine it by trying to give as much access to traditionally disempowered people. If it were possible, I would give my power wholly to people who do not have it, but that’s not how power works. I can’t make an absolute transfer of power to someone else. Power is something that is attained over time, and the power that one attains in one’s lifetime generally correlates to someone’s strengths and talents. I cannot give my voice to someone else, but I can use my voice to help someone else speak.

I think of this as a writer – when I publish pieces in the East Bay Express, I try to address issues that effect disenfranchised or oppressed communities. Yes, when I write about a disenfranchised or oppressed community I feel that I am doing something good by giving them a voice. However, I also know that by taking up this space in the weekly paper that someone else is perhaps not given the chance to write about the exact same thing and see their name on the by line.

So, what I’m saying is: if you are looking for opportunities that you see that I have, you can ask me for help. In fact, please ask me for help. If you need a job, or if you need job training, or if you need advice, or if you see that I have the power to help you – ask me for help.

I have a lot of guilt because that’s who I am as a person and that’s how I was raised. So I am trying to be impactful and productive in my community. I am trying to share my knowledge and my power with other people who can do great things with the same tools.

When I started this blog, I wanted to have other contributors. But much that power follows one’s talents, I realized that this blog was wholly mine because, well, no one else wanted to write anything. No one else submitted anything. But having a voice is a powerful thing, and just because no one submitted anything – that doesn’t mean that there isn’t something out there to be said.

I want to hear you. The world wants to hear you. I love hearing what you have to say, and I also realize that I can’t take up all this space all the time. I need you. We need to have conversations so we can further an agenda that gives power to those who have none.

Which isn’t to say that I don’t have these conversations – it’s just to say that I could always, always have more.

OK Let’s Talk About This Nazi Stuff

Omigod this shit is depressing.

It’s also really hard to watch people that I think are intelligent defend the neo nazis’ right to free speech. Because it just doesn’t make sense to me, and then I lose respect for people defending the neo nazis.

What’s interesting about the argument surrounding neo nazis’ free speech is that it’s clearly the right coopting liberal language and twisting it in their favor – it’s a smart move on their part, I’ll give them that. They’ve managed to tie our intellectual shoe laces together and now we’re tripping all over the place.

But it’s frustrating to watch the neo nazis coopt the issue of freedom of speech (and then gain so much traction with it) because this is an issue that isn’t alien to the left. Generally, freedom of speech has been used in radical circles to fight censorship. Now that the neo nazis have sunk their teeth into this rhetoric it seems that people don’t know where the lines are or what the issues are.

The idea of freedom of speech is an issue that hits close to home for me. I have a picture in my bedroom of Mario Savio and a band of Berkeley protesters holding their free speech banner – my father gave it to me when I was much younger because he was there, at that protest.

As a woman who has been running a sex blog for several years, the issue also hits close to home. For years I have been writing controversial things – on sex, on gentrification, on the local culture – and have weathered quite a lot of backlash because of it. On many occasions people have told me to stop writing, to take my blog down, that I’m wrong. But I kept writing.

What strikes me as hypocritical is that many of the people who now advocate for the neo nazis’ freedom of speech are the same people who had so much to say to me when I was writing things they didn’t like. There’s a striking imbalance when you examine someone’s advocating for a white man’s right to bitch about how women and minorities are inferior classes versus a woman who writes about sexual liberation and radical class politics.

I feel like I’m missing something here. How come the liberals who defend the neo nazis’ freedom of speech never stood up for me? Or any of my other friends who do the same shit that I do?

Let’s be honest: the answer to that questions is that they’ve been got. They’ve been conned by the media and the new speak of the neo nazis into believing that the their freedom of speech is being impinged upon.

But it’s not, because people across all political spectrums have espoused radical ideologies. The neo nazis aren’t upset that their freedom of speech is being impinged upon – they’re mad that there are consequences to having incredibly divisive opinions.

Look, I get it. I have some incredibly divisive opinions, okay? We all wanna stick it to the man, and the man is different for everybody. And, I know, it sucks when I speak up about my opinions and then people don’t like me or I feel alienated because of my beliefs. Yeah, I’ll be honest – I wish I lived in a world where my beliefs were the dominant beliefs held by society. But I don’t, and they’re not, so I’m going to continue fighting in my own way for what I believe is right.

The neo nazis, on the other hand, are proactively pushing their beliefs into society in a way that necessarily causes harm. They are engaging in something called hate speech, and they are espousing an ideology of white supremacy that necessarily harms every other class of citizens. They are forcibly bringing this ideology to historically liberal areas (such as the Bay Area and places that are toppling Confederate statues) and forcing confrontations. Next week, there will be several race based altercations in my city.

But I understand the concern here – what is hate speech? And how can we ensure that the definition of hate speech doesn’t encroach upon regular speech? Is this just the thought police, at it again?

Look, I’ll be honest with you: I’m an anarchist. I believe in open dialogue, and my response to neo nazis is: FUCK YOU. To me, that is a fair and open dialogue. I believe that for every reaction, there is a reaction, and if a neo nazi wants to come into my community and espouse beliefs that necessarily oppress me, my friends and my family, my response is: GET THE FUCK OUT. I believe that when I hear hate speech or see hateful actions, I should be able to use my free speech to defend myself and those around me. And if they get to be heard, I get to be heard, too.

They’ve been exercising their freedom of speech for a long time in dark corners of the Internet where there were no consequences. If they want to speak publicly, there will be consequences.

If you’re here to use your freedom of speech to be a neo nazi or to waste your breath being in the middle and doing nothing to solve the problem, then just don’t talk to me. I can’t believe I’m having conversations over moral ambiguity in the face of impending fascism and nazism.

Also, if you support the neo nazis’ freedom of speech, please support mine, too! I take cash donations, thanks.

 

Stop Hating on the Friend Zone

I went through a break up a couple months ago. It was whatever, but he came up to me and told me, “The romantic aspect of our relationship is over.” I wasn’t thoroughly pleased by that statement, but what he said next made me feel way better, “You’re still one of my best friends!”

Victory! I thought. Although not fucking this person was a bit of a bummer, let me tell you: I have some really great friendships. I get a lot out of friendships, emotionally and otherwise. I love having someone to kick it with, to call when I’m bummed, to be my fake date to various social events, to take me grocery shopping, to tell me that I’m great when I’m having a bad day. I don’t really understand why people are so made at the friend zone. There’s so much awesome shit that you can do with someone in the friend zone that doesn’t involve sex!

Ok, I get it: everybody wanna fuck. That’s tight. I like sex. I think it’s cool. But I don’t understand why everybody has to hate on friendship just because sex is cool.

Sure, I understand: if you’re not fucking a lot of people, but you have a ton of friends that are sexually attractive and sexually available that don’t want to have sex with you, then friendship might feel kinda shitty. But it’s not friendship’s fault that you’re good at being friends with people and don’t have any game. In fact, if anything, friendship is a highly underrated type of relationship.

Often times friendship is overlooked – it’s often eclipsed by everybody’s favorite type of relationship: the sexual relationship. But since when did friendship become typecast as a dearth of sex? Why is the sexlessness of friendship it’s major defining factor?

Devaluing friendship because it lacks sexuality denigrates all the other wonderful things that we get from friendship: companionship, someone to party with, rides to the airport, support, favors to call in, someone to gossip with, someone to text late at night when you’re drunk but not have it be weird. Granted, these are all things that we can get in our romantic relationships – romantic relationships also add the ingredient of sex and romance.

Of course, it’s worth noting that not every great friendship can turn into a great romance. Sex and romance are their own factors that fundamentally impact the nature of your relationship with someone. A great friendship can be turned into a great awkwardness if the sex sucks. The sexual and romantic aspects of a relationship might not necessarily translate well when the qualities of friendship are expected, too; after you fuck someone, going grocery shopping together might not be that hot. Likewise, just because you fuck your friend doesn’t mean that romantic feelings are going to develop, or even that you’ll fuck again.

Personally, I get a lot of mileage out of my friendships. They tend to be really functional. (Whereas my romantic relationships? Not as much.) I have also fucked a lot of my friends, so when I make a new friend and I can tell that they resent me for not fucking them, I wonder: how much will this person resent me after I fuck them? Answer: a lot, but, then again, I probably shouldn’t be friends with people who resent my sexual decisions in either direction.

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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.