*PENDING*

I went through my pending folder on my old blog, and, ooh, honey, there is some dark shit lurking in those unpublished blog posts. It made me laugh because, well, I used to be such a wild party girl. That’s not me anymore. I’m all straight laced and boring, which is great because being a 30-something party girl doesn’t quite have the same ring to it as being a 20-something party girl. The inability to age gracefully is definitely a deep seated fear of mine, but betraying who I used to be is also another deep seated fear of mine. Eh, I’m a walking contradiction, I’ve come to accept that.

As I was flipping through the old posts, I smiled, but I also realized: I would *never* do that again! Of course, it’s not that I wouldn’t ever do it again, it’s more that the way the world works and who I am in it is incredibly different from what it was four years ago. This mostly has to do with the fact that I feel guilty about being perceived as a hypocrite in the #MeToo era, and, honestly, I don’t really want to write about that because, well, I plead the fifth.

Anyways, I’ve decided to post some of these “too hot to handle” blog posts because it’s been a couple years and also because of nostalgia and also it’s been so long all the people I reference in these posts are long gone and probably wouldn’t even care if they found their way onto my little corner on the Internet. Remember, you’re not judging “me” you’re judging the person I was four years ago. I’m very, very different now.

Here goes.

Our Cheating Hearts

This isn’t my fault. I know it. I also know that everyone is going to blame me, but I’m the most honest person in this entire situation.

His relationship is falling apart, and he blames me. I guess I’m an easy target for scape goating, mostly because I’m the most disengaged person in this entire scenario. That’s probably because my M.O. in life isn’t finding long term romantic relationships. Which is probably how I wound up giving him a blow job in the back of his car outside of a bar on a Friday night. And now I’m suffering the consequences.

It’s easy for a woman to call another woman a man stealer, but I rue that term because men are not property that can be stolen and then possessed. Even so, I’m not looking to steal a man, I’m merely looking to borrow a man for a night or two so I can indulge my impulse for sexual pleasure. That was all I wanted when I ran into him, yet again, as I always do, in the back of the bar on a Friday night.

We kind of have an arrangement to do that. He and I. We’ve been running into each other on purpose for about three months, mostly because he’s unhappy and I’m bored. That’s a recipe for romance right there, isn’t it? I would let him by me drinks with someone else’s money, and we’d shoot the shit about our otherwise mundane lives while the lingering specter of the woman he was supposed to be loving appeared intermittently on his phone. I would ignore that, mostly in lieu of free drinks and the promise of male attention. It’s not that I’m cheap, it’s just that I know what I like. And the things I like happen to be cheap. Hennessy, however, is not.

But his relationship isn’t falling apart because of me. We all know that if it weren’t me, it would be someone else. He would have found some other haphazard girl in the back of this bar to fondle and coddle. Me? I’m not ruthless like the rest of them, and I actually don’t really care about him as a person, which I’m not sure if that makes it better or worse. But when his significant other came knocking at my door, it helped that I didn’t want to fight for him.

I know that when they’re having their arguments, tucked into their apartment with their smashing plates and their exploding wine glasses, that my name must come up. It’s inevitable, isn’t it? Even though it’s not my fault that they feel this way about each other. That’s the thing about cheaters: it’s not that they love and they leave; it’s that they love and they stay. And then they love other people, too, and they still stay with the primary partner. The impulse to cheat is not something that I can either cure or deny, but I indulge someone else’s infidelity occasionally and with gusto. Because that’s how I deal with fucking: vigorously. I don’t look at the moral circumstances of someone else’s penis, I just put it in my mouth and hope for the best.

They say that it’s my fault that their relationship is in ruins. It’s not my fault; I am merely the harbinger of the inevitable. I don’t feel guilty about being the scion of the relentless future, but, rather, I feel inspired by the fact that I am the vessel of someone else’s unstoppable fate. If I get punched in the face because of it, so be it. But I’m not going to get punched in the face. I had my orgasm, and I walked away, and if the post facto price of my momentary pleasure is someone blaming me for her failed relationship: fine.

Sex is its own thing, and I take it when I can. Anyone who wants to ascribe emotional connotations to an orgasm is a fucking fool, which is why I have the privilege of walking away from every man who didn’t matter to me. Sex is a sport, and if you’re losing at it, then quit the game. Us winners are too busy fucking each other to care about what anyone else does.

The Rat King of Fuck Boys

This is my ode to him, as he stumbles drunkenly through these bars and into the arms of any woman is naive enough to think that constant inebriation and the clever things he says in the midst of yet another drug binge are charming. I see him, and I watch him slyly as he snakes around this room, seeking out the validation of constant attention from an audience that will never pull back the curtain and see what kind of monsters are sitting there, unsettled beneath his skin. But the audience will never know because the audience will never care enough to ask, “How does the world manage to make a man as broken as this in a place like here?” However, I ask, and that makes me wonder what’s wrong with me, or maybe it’s just that my sexual fixation on burning buildings and car crashes and any sort of disaster that results in screaming and the gnashing of teeth has lead me to a point in my life where I see a boy like him, bright and bristling in the middle of this bar that has lead me to look and wonder, “Is his dick as big as his swagger?” And here I am, doing my empirical research in order to find the objectively truthful answer to that question. It’s a painful pursuit, filled with the unrequited text messages that most women bemoan but that I have come to anticipate in a metered and well plotted journey into the heartlessness of darkness. This journey is littered with the empty promises and the sweet nothings and the could have beens that men like him rely upon for sustenance every day, which they chew up and then yack up dyspeptically in moments of alcoholic emesis at some ungodly AM hour. And then we point, and we laugh, and we judge, but no one ever takes a moment to whisper, “He’s sick…” We all just take it for granted, and we take fucking him for granted because in all likelihood he will be sick forever, and women like us can take that sickness and use it as an excuse to fuck without ever looking back. We tend to tell ourselves that it’s our loss, but we’ve been taking sex from a sick boy and walking away every time while he sits in his own filth and has to suffer through being him for the rest of his life. Perhaps we shouldn’t be mad that we get to walk away but, rather, let’s be honest – if you’ve ever fucked a fuck boy, then you know that you have taken from him everything that he has ever been able to give the world: sex. He has nothing left to give after he has given the world a good session of fucking, so why should we be mad that we get to walk away and be complete, real human beings even after moments of descent into blissful, carnal pleasure with someone who doesn’t really matter?

Life After Sex

I am beautiful, and he is drinking from an almost empty handle of Walgreen’s whiskey at three in the morning, constantly alternating among that, the liter of apple juice, and a bag of cocaine. It’s too bright in here as we sit on his couch and consume substances recklessly, and I watch him, knowing that he is the man I am going to fuck tonight, despite the fact that my phone is blowing up at this exact moment with invitations from various men, better men, from all over town who would love to have my naked and next to them right now. But I’m not there, I’m here, and he knows it. He just got back from the strip club, and I’m drunk on tequila. He knows that I can fuck anyone else if I want to. That’s not the problem. The problem is that he knows that I’m here despite the fact that I can be fucking a million better men right now. Men who would show up. Men who will throw down credit cards. Men with nice jobs and nice houses and promptly returned text messages.

But instead I’m here, and we both know it. Grimly. And we both know why, and it’s because those other men are not offering me the one thing that I want right now: disgusting, depraved, humiliating sex. Unfortunately, most people think I’m too pretty to get belt choked while rammed in the ass, but he doesn’t. He doesn’t have any respect for me as a person, which is why the sex is so good. He doesn’t have respect for women in general, and I accept that as I sit on the couch and watch him consume while I wait for him to deign right now the perfect moment to walk into the other room and fuck. I will be sitting here for as long as it takes, and then, when he’s done, I’ll leave to some other far away bedroom where I can be alone and not in the awful presence of him. And time will pass, days will go by. I don’t know exactly how many days will go by, but eventually I’ll find myself back here, doing the same thing, watching a man who doesn’t love me, and certainly doesn’t love himself either, get as fucked up as he can possibly withstand before fucking me like he hates me. He’s a killer, and he’s killing me slowly, although also very quickly with that belt around my neck while he’s fucking me from behind. Always right before I pass out, it occurs to me that he could kill me, but I’m right at the cross hairs of ‘he likes fucking me’ and ‘he doesn’t give enough of a shit about me to put effort into killing me,’ so I know I’ll be fine. This time.

In Delirium

I can see something dangerous in his eyes, which frightens me, but I have been told that there is something dangerous in my eyes, too. I wonder if that frightens him. As we skulk outside this bar, and the heat of the Hennessy that has been pushed down my throat by too many bad decisions is warming me in the cool summer air. I am dying to fuck him, but I am too scared to do it, even though I have done it before, and I will probably do it again. It’s not that. It’s not the sex that scares me, but everything that comes with. Everything that it is dressed up in. All the cocaine I will have to do in order to stay up until 5 am, which is usually the point in the night when he likes to fuck. Me? I’m usually asleep by then, and I know that without my beauty sleep I will not be beautiful. I am afraid of being awake until 8 am while high on cocaine. I am afraid of listening to things that he says in the throes of his addictions. I am afraid of becoming the woman who loves someone like that, because I have seen the women who love him, and they look fucking awful. I do not deceive myself into thinking that I can keep up, and I never really try, mostly because he’s not the one pouring booze and drugs down my throat. I do it of my own volition. Even if I do it for him, but I know that there’s no point in doing anything for him. He won’t appreciate it. I could fuck someone more normal and less maniacal, probably at around 12 am; I could fuck someone who’s just as good in bed and even more coherent than this guy. I could do that. I could fuck someone who would appreciate the things that I do and listens to the things I say. But I choose not to do that. I choose him. I choose the thing that scares me the most. I choose the option that is the quickest path to destruction. I walk down that path gleefully. Skipping, almost. To hell in a hand basket. It’s not his fault that I’m doing this; he is merely the object of my self destructive desire. And I am the idiot, moaning in the middle of the road, bleeding and crying, wondering how did I get here. He is the road; I am the traveler. It is not the road’s fault that I am careening around at 120 mph, drunk and disastrous, and enjoying every second of this mother fucking joy ride. I accept that the causality of my fatality is only me. This is my fault. Only mine.

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