My Lesbian Sexual Fantasy

I realized the other day that I kinda have a crush on this girl. Or, not a crush, it’s actually a lot darker than that. Yes, there’s sexual attraction there, but there’s also some pretty violent urges mixed in with it, too. I don’t really know what to call it or how to explain it. Mostly because I’m totally straight, so, yeah, how does this add up? I mean, sure, I’ve hooked up with girls before, mostly in the context of the MFF, but I’ve had a handful of legit lesbian experiences. It’s how I figured out that I’m not very queer at all. When tasked with eating another woman’s pussy, I usually wrinkle up my nose, throw the hitachi wand at her, and tell her to finish herself off and then leave. It’s an experience that really made me feel like I was in touch with my own twisted form of internal toxic masculinity. Although, it’s not that I’m not into women like that. In all honesty, damn, boobs are truly amazing and I love touching them. And it’s not that I’m not into pussy in general because, let me tell you, I sure do love my own pussy so I guess that love could very easily translate to another woman’s pussy. I think it’s just that, at this age, I’m not really interested in learning anything new. I’d like to think it’s because I’m lazy, but in my heart of hearts I know it’s that I don’t want to try eating pussy and then realize I’m bad at it. My ego can’t take it. Also, I invested so much fucking time in sucking dick, I don’t really want to spend years perfecting pussy eating. Let me be an old dog. Don’t teach me any new tricks. Although, who knows, maybe eating pussy for me is what anal sex is to other people – gotta save it for someone special, right? Wait for marriage or some shit? I mean, I’m definitely not in a place in my life where I want to go out and lick a hundred different pussies just so I can good at it. Perhaps later in life I’ll find the motivation to get into eating pussy. Just…right now, not so much. Guess I’ll just let this crush rot in the ether because, honestly, I think the only reason I have this crush is because, well…this person is very hot, but she has such a trash personality, and I kinda just wanna see if I got game like that. The sexual fantasy that plays out in my head is definitely one where I seduce her at a bar, take her home, and then as soon as we get back to my place I say, “Actually, can you leave?” Which is a really weird sexual fantasy to have because it’s not very sexual at all, it’s more about ego masturbation than anything else. But, hey, sometimes it’s not about fucking someone, it’s about knowing that you have the option to fuck them that really counts, and then it’s also about rejecting someone just to be an asshole for your own gratification.

Stock Quotes

I was in some random bar the other day, all tarted up and trying to look professional, when I noticed this Steinbeck quote on the wall:

“I have always lived violently, drunk hugely, eaten too much or not at all, slept around the clock or missed two nights of sleeping, worked too hard and too long in glory, or slobbed for a time in utter laziness. I’ve lifted, pulled, chopped, climbed, made love with joy and taken my hangovers as a consequence, not as a punishment.”

As I sat there, contained within my clothing and totally sober, I realized: oh, isn’t this what I do when I’m not at work. And here I am, working, trying to be the exact opposite of that, and, oh, isn’t this ironic. People are here, paying $16 for a cocktail with their money from their corporate, sixty hours a week jobs while perched underneath these immortal words, and here I am, eager to go home and do exactly those things that he talks about, but I can’t do it here because for some reason this place is actually the polar opposite of the idea put forth by this quote, even though that quote was put there to push people into drinking more. I kinda want to stand up on the bar, gesticulate wildly at that quote and shout, “I’m here! I am that person!” But I can’t, because that quote wasn’t put there so that other writers would feel inspired. It was put there to sell more alcohol. There’s something antithetical about the irony of this so-called poetry that was painted there to do the exact opposite of what it’s supposedly preaching. Which is why I’m confused: I think I’m supposed to relate to this because I drink and I’m a writer and I’m wild (kinda), but I can’t. Of course, I realize that as a woman of color, that wild white boy life will always be out of reach for me, but that’s fine. Me and my friends live by different quotes, ones that are modern and not forged within the fires of white, male heteropatriarchy. We’re more into “burn it down” and “punch a nazi,” but, I know, I know, those ideas don’t exactly translate into hip neighborhood bar wall quotes, and you can’t sell $16 cockails on antifa dreams. So, I tell myself to put more capitalism in it, make it cute, and walk away.

Emotional Labor v Emotional Investment v Emotional Chaos

I was chatting with a friend the other day who was bemoaning the amount of emotional labor around queer liberation she had to do for her cishet white male coworker. She was clearly frustrated that she was put in that situation, and while I felt for her, I have to admit: I don’t do emotional labor for people. I know that it’s an honorable thing to do, but I’m an anarchist, and I believe in the abolition of work, so I try to practice that as much as possible in my day to day life.

The idea of emotional labor is something that I’ve seen pop up more and more frequently in feminist and queer circles. I get it: we expend a lot of emotional energy trying to fix the world, and it’s great that we qualify it as labor because, yes, let’s get paid for this shit. However, we’re still a long way off from getting all those PayPal invoices cleared for all our emotional labor on the Internet and in person, so I thought I’d share with you my more practical approach to emotional labor: emotional investment.

Because I know that I’m probably not going to be compensated with money for emotional labor, I only do it for people I love. I view that as an investment: I’m going to invest my time and my energy and my emotions into helping educate and build this person’s consciousness of the world. And it’s going to be worth it, because that person is going to appreciate the time I put into our relationship, and that emotional energy will be repaid to me. This approach makes me feel a lot better about the emotional labor I do, and especially as it relates to people I love, it makes me feel less bitter about the work that I’m doing. Sure, not all my investments will pay off, and not all my investments will be appreciated, but shedding the transactional mentality around emotional labor and adopting an attitude of mutual education makes it a lot easier to tackle.

Of course, there are still those scenarios where you are expected to do emotional labor, but there is no potential for an emotional investment or an emotional payoff. Therefore: emotional chaos. This should be pretty self explanatory. If it’s not worth it for you to do the emotional labor, fuck it! It is literally not your job to do that shit. And this is the emotional labor that I am willing to do for you, dear reader: practice that bitch face. Practice that whole “not giving a fuck” attitude. Practice the smug comfort of moral superiority and walking away. Trust me, it feels good.

Just remember: it’s your call on when to invest and when to pull out. Start making the right calls.

What’s Your Dick Like, Homie? or,The Sexual Journey

Kelsey and I have been playing this game where we make educated guesses about what we think our mutual acquaintances are like in bed. It’s a game that I’ve played my entire life, but it’s pretty fun to play it with someone who is equally as (if not more) sexually seasoned as I am. So far, we have been really, really wrong about one person and dead on the money about another, and we’re currently building up the betting pool for the odds on a certain third party we’re currently researching.

I was pretty surprised when we were dead wrong about the first one. You fuck enough people, and you get a pretty good sense of what their sexual potential is. However, I’m glad to know that I haven’t reached my sexual limit when it comes to learning about other people’s sexualities. There are still things out there that surprise me! Which is a relief, I’d hate to be at the upper limit of human sexuality already. That’s a bleak prospect – I’m really hoping that there are still fun, exciting sexual activities for me to explore up until the day I die, but I’m probably going to have to slow my roll on a few things to ensure that I don’t dead end into sexual ennui (or criminal paraphilia) within the next five years.

Basically, the reason that I miscalled my sexual prediction was because I hadn’t accounted for what was an honestly very unexpected plot twist: a man in his 40s experiencing a sexual awakening of sorts. Having run among a crowd of very sexually confident and sexually experienced people for my entire life, it didn’t even occur to me that someone could enter my realm of social reference without being on the same sexual wavelength as everyone else here. A sexually repressed man? In his 40s? With money? And a totally sweet personality? And a willingness to grow and learn?

So, yeah, I know: this is not a common occurrence by any means. But the reason I’m so fixated on it is because, well, it gives me hope. My sexual prediction had basically been: you know when you go to those suburban buffets when you’re out there trying to do the decent thing and spend time with your family, but you’re there with your grandparents so you gotta suck it up and eat whatever weird jello salad retiree food they give you, so you go and grab a shrimp cocktail because it seems like the classiest and most palatable option possible (especially after breezing past tray after tray of weirdly gray meatloaf and sloppy joes and the obligatory Filipino dish that you have no idea what it is, but these old white dudes love wifing up Filipino ladies after that first disastrous marriage that spawned your family, so of course the buffet has Filipino food here), and then you go to eat it, and as you’re holding that piece of shrimp in your hand you realize: this shrimp has probably been sitting in a freezer for like six weeks next to an expired bag of frozen tater tots and five pounds of ground beef that were on sale at Big Lots, and now the shrimp has been thawed out but not quite completely and sitting in this weird, stuffy restaurant filled with recycled air that all these lifetime cigarette smokers have been wheezing in and out, and while the shrimp itself isn’t quite lukewarm, there’s something slightly salmonella about the whole situation, and you realize it’s probably not a good idea to eat this artificially pink shrimp, but it’s literally the only thing you grabbed to eat, and actually you’re pretty hungry, and if you don’t eat it your grandparents are going to give you grief, and if you do eat it, you’ll probably be sick for the next 36 hours, but fuck it. My prediction was basically the sexual equivalent of that. But I was wrong. And, my god, it felt pretty good to be wrong about that! Granted, I was pretty proud of the vivid metaphor that I painted for out little exercise, but I prefer faith in humanity over my own self congratulatory puns anyways, so I take this defeat with grace.

My current sexual prediction for another anonymous member of the local community is: bet she only fucks when she drunk. I know, not a very exciting prediction, and, honestly, a very tried and true, unfortunately all-too-common prediction that I wish we could eradicate from the lexicon of female sexuality because it’s so god damn played out and pathetic. (I know this from personal experience, as any long time readers would know, but, trust me, a love for alcohol and a love for sex do not need to be interdependent. PMA, ladies.) To expand on the prediction, let’s just say, you know when you’re newly single and you’re actually kinda heart broken about the situation, but you have too much pride to do the healthy thing and stay at home and drink fresh fruit smoothies and get 8 hours of sleep every night, so instead you hoe hop from bar to bar in search of literally anybody to fuck, but in order  to forget your ex and actually get into fucking some random dude, you have to get super drunk, like, no avoiding a hangover drunk, which also means that your inhibitions slip down, and sometimes that means you wind up doing some weirdly emotional and off color kinda kinky shit with a stranger, like ask him to choke you, but then he chokes you, and it’s too much, so you cry uncle, and just go back to four minutes of room spinning pillow queening it and asking him too frequently did he cum yet because clearly you’re not really into it, and then the next morning you do not talk about it at all, but for some reason doing one kinky thing makes you think you’re queer, and if you ever fuck this person again you’re just as drunk and weird as the last time because it’s not about being shy around new partners it’s more about a long term self loathing that results in a lack of sexual prowess or the basic libido that people think young women like you should have? Like that, except, after you do that for the majority of your entire adult sexuality there’s something kinda perfunctory and uninteresting about the desperation and drunkenness.

Now, the only question that remains is: who’s gonna fuck her, me or Kelsey? I mean, I have a feeling that neither of us are going to do it, just out of mercy, and also out of ethics, so the hunt is on for the answer to our burning question: how’s she fuck? Anybody want to help us settle this bet? Am I on the money or is there hope for humanity?

Lazy Sundays

I woke up this morning with every intention of writing, but instead when I rolled over in bed I noticed that my boobs were getting PMS big, and for some reason my own tits turned me on (they are so bouncy but still so pert when I PMS! And my nipples look so cute when they’re all stiff, like cherries on top of mounds of ice cream!), so I masturbated instead. Plus there’s something about the sunshine on a Sunday morning that makes me super horny. Now I can’t get out of bed, and I’m probably just going to masturbate until I’m so disgusted with myself that I decide nothing can be done with today except drink until I’m too drunk to have the patience to masturbate.

Wish you were here.


“You’re so optimistic!”

I’ve heard this several times before from several people over the years. Or, namely, the two years since I tried to kill myself. What I like to tell people is, “Optimism and pessimism are both free, but pessimism costs more.” It makes sense in a tautological sense, but the reason I tell myself that is because the idea doesn’t come naturally to me. I force myself into optimism because I don’t really like taking those little pills every day. They fuck with my ability to cum, and if I can’t cum, why live? And that’s not a thought I need in my head. So: forced optimism.

But it’s a lot darker than that.

The only reason I’m alive is because I’m too strong to kill myself. I have to deal with that every day: the dose was not strong enough, and, god damn, that was a strong dose. It’s a weird thing to think about as I wander through the world, feeling forlorn, and realizing that I have no exit plan. I don’t know if any of you dear readers have ever pondered this, but, me? I have no option but to see this shit out to the very end. And I am not looking forward to it.

I know I’m not supposed to romanticize suicide because I’m supposed to be “reformed,” but, man, fuck that, why can’t I think about this. Why is this taboo. I tried my hardest not to be here, but here I am. I’m doing this because I literally have no better option. Not even suicide. I can’t die my way out of here. I have to live through this shit. The rest of you? I bet none y’all even tried.

When I got out of the hospital and walked back into my room – blood everywhere. Pills scattered across the floor. Random bullets. The knife in my bed. Everything was chaos. I had to throw all that shit out because I didn’t want to lie back down on those sheets that were covered in blood. My mother, standing in the corner, so concerned, and me, still serotonin shocked, and reeling. The would-be murder scene.

So, I’m optimistic. How could I not be? I am one of the craziest, strongest, most vicious people I know, and not even I could kill me. I guess I should be optimistic. I mean – I, better than anyone out there, know what can hurt me. I know how to kill me. And I couldn’t do it. So – I literally have nothing to be afraid of. People who talk shit about me and sneer at me in the street act like I should be afraid, but, honey, I am the only person who can hurt me that badly. And I tried. And I failed. I think I might be invincible. Which is why I’m optimistic. If you want me out of here, you have to kill me. And it takes a lot to kill me. Trust me. I tried.

I have hope for the future. Worst case scenario: I die, and clearly I’m okay with that, so meh. Best case scenario: all this crazy shit I’m stabbing at actually pulls off, and then, poof, I’m happy, so that’s cool, too. Just please don’t suspend me in the in between.

Have you stared down the throat of your own mortality and come out alive? Can you judge me for trying to escape? Who here isn’t secretly hoping that we can just exit early? Trust me, I tried. I 12 muscle relaxers, 8 valium, 50 aspirin and half a bottle of whiskey tried. And I’m still here, and I’m still in it. If I can, you can. Shit’s not that bad.


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.