I know I’m getting old because last night my friend told me that he wanted to set me up on a date with someone. I asked him who, and he showed me a picture. In a moment of chagrin, I had to let him know, “Actually, I already fucked that guy. Eight years ago.” Ah, yes, the life and times of hoing.


Are my dreams just the thoughts that my thoughts have when they think I’m not paying attention?


I went to a gay party for the first time in a long time last night, and suddenly I was awash with that familiar feeling of actually being comfortable among the other people at the bar. This feeling was immediately ensued by a sense of knowing that I probably don’t belong here because I’m 100% straight, after which tucked my tail between my legs and hightailed it out of there. I miss going to art parties and hanging out with the weirdos. Where have all the weirdos gone?


Up until two years ago, pretty much everyone I fucked lived within a five block radius of me – there were at least ten of them out here. It was my golden age of fucking. Then gentrification kicked in with a vengeance, and now I am bearing witness to the death of the neighborhood fuck buddy. Thanks a lot, white people, you really harshed my dick game.


Mount Everyone: A Eulogy

I got home yesterday, walked into my room, and burst into tears. I realized as I sat on my bed: this is it. The end of an era.

And what an era it has been. I lived at 3208 West Street for the past six and a half years. I moved in here when I was 24, and I fucked that shit up for the rest of my 20’s. As I sit here, on this bed, I wonder what kind of things these walls have seen. What kind of things these walls have contained, and what they will hold after I am gone. In a house that is over 100 years old, who am I in this fleeting moment of time?

I fucked so many beautiful people here. Did a lot of drugs. Partied pretty hard. I used to hostess Monday night orgies here a few summer times ago. Definitely tried to kill myself in this room. I thought that I would die here. That I would live here the rest of my life. For a moment, I thought that I would have kids and raise a family here. Friendships were both forged and broken in this house.

I could tell a lot of stories about this house, but those are all recorded on Fuck Feast, so I won’t waste your time. Oddly enough, Fuck Feast is a phenomenon that was born and died in this house. Fuck Feast is, if anything, very much of 3208 West Street. I guess that’s why I’m afraid to leave – I have been afraid to leave Fuck Feast behind, and I now I am afraid to leave this place behind, because with it I leave a piece of myself.

I wonder how I’ll be able to write without this place. Who I will become. I spent my best party years at this house. I changed as a person. And perhaps now that change is complete, and it is time for me to move on. I grit my teeth and dig my heels in – I know it is time for me to go. But I don’t want leave this place because I don’t want to leave that piece of me that will always be here, that ephemeral piece of me that blossomed and decayed in this bedroom. I want that part of me to never to die, to never go away. But it has already – I am just clinging onto a corpse.

Leaving this place is an admission of failure on an even larger level than just myself. Many of my friends have moved away – some have come back, but most are gone forever. Some friends have succumbed to their addictions, others have succumbed so far that now it’s time for rehab. This city has changed. We have changed. My home was the last thing that I had in order to cling onto those people and those memories. This was the last place where I felt like things could never change, where I could be the same person and time travel in an instant back to better years. This place is stained with my memories, and what will I remember when I’m gone? When I’m gone – is that it?

There’s no turning back. I have been packing my bags and it makes me feel wildly sad to dismantle this bedroom, which, after six years of careful hoarding and curating, is a testament to my personality as manifested through tchotchkes and other various material objects.

I am lamenting. Of course I am. There is no going back once I leave this place. After this, there is only the future and the person I will become. I don’t know if I will like the person I will become without the place, without the wildness and the lawlessness of what my life has been in West Oakland.

I was young, and I was free, in every way possible, as much as I could be. But now that has been taken away from me, and I am prisoner in this society just like everyone else.

The Dick Pic Epidemic Is A Fucking Myth

I’ve been pretty proud of myself lately for exercising all the restraint and self control. Really, it’s somewhat boring, but there are extenuating circumstances that have inspired me to address some immediate problems rather than burying myself in toxic coping mechanisms.

My current shitty mental state aside, the one thing that I will admit to enjoying every now and then is a good, old fashioned dick pic. I’m a classic straight person, and I just love looking at dicks. I’m not really sure why – they’re kinda funny looking but also very cute, like armadillos. There’s also something thrilling about the mutual exchange of genitalia on the Internet – it’s our pseudo-neo-intimacy, and I like it.

However, I have noticed that *some people* are very reticent about sending me pictures of their dicks. Which pisses me off. I think it’s so strange that a guy would make it clear to me that he wants to put his dick in my mouth but won’t let me look at first, or after. Like, ugh, you want to engage in oral sex but I don’t get to assess what I’m working with first? Or even after the deed is done?

If you paid attention to the media at all, this revelation probably comes as a surprise. The “fake news” would have you believing that dick pics are going viral, straight from one camera roll to another text message inbox. But that’s wrong! I don’t really know who is responsible for this supposed deluge of dick pics, but I think that numbers are probably very skewed here. I bet that there’s a small population of men sending a mass amount of dick pics, but their reach is far enough to make it seem like every average guy is just fiddling around with his dick in the coffee shop bathroom and snapping pics for the world to see.

This simply is not the case.

Alas, this is me, butting heads yet again with today’s stereotypes of masculinity. I thought that every dude was obsessively in love with his own dick, and that love would translate into sending me pictures of his dick whenever I ask for them. No! I am disappointed, yet again!

At first I thought that it might be a trust issue thing. Yeah, I get it, it’s pretty obvious that I’m amassing a collection of the prettiest dicks out there for my own amusement, and also the amusement of my friends to whom I show your dick pics. No, I’m not going to revenge-porn you or anything, I’m just a dick aficionado.

On the other hand, I realized, maybe all guys aren’t obsessively in love with their own dicks. Maybe men aren’t at all like who I thought they were. Maybe men don’t stare at their dicks in the mirrors and jack off every day and take pictures of their dicks for sport. (This makes things a little weird, because we all know that’s what I do with my pussy, but I’ve written a million blog posts about that, so, moving on…) Maybe some of these guys who I know for a fact have very pretty dicks aren’t actually in love with their dicks like that.

Which brings me back to the same thing I’ve always been harping on: dudes, if this is not your sexuality, why do you let the media make you look like this? It’s so misleading.

In the meantime, all you fucking freaks out there, send me some dicks!

Man Eater

I have feasted on men for the better part of a decade, and now I am sitting at the table, fork in hand, with no appetite for men whatsoever. Man after man after man is paraded before me, dressed up in finery and flavor, but instead I sit here and sip my champagne. None of them are appealing. They all look like bad meals that will get stuck between my teeth and hours later I will be rolling on the floor with a stomach ache. Perhaps I have eaten too many men, and having gorged myself on the flesh of men, perhaps my appetite has been sated.

Although, no, that’s not it – perhaps it’s that one of the men I ate had gone bad, and he made me sick, and I was heaving over the toilet and rushed to the emergency room the next day. Maybe he damn near killed me.

Although, no – that has happened so many times in my life before, and it never stopped me then. Perhaps it’s that my appetite has waned. After all these years, my palate has evolved, and eating just any man simply won’t do the trick. I want to kobe beef of boys in my mouth tonight. No more drive thru hamburgers of dick and desire. I want something good this time. My appetite for shit men has evaporated, and I’m finding that this new diet is working quite well for me.

I sit at the table, fork in hand. I demand that you only bring me your best men to feast on. Nothing less will satisfy me. And I won’t leave until I’m done.

A Profile of This Week’s Sadness

I am sitting here, inside myself, waiting for things to get better. The sickly feeling of the morning washes over me. I do not feel good. I didn’t feel good yesterday. Will I feel good tomorrow?

I want to turn off all the noise around me, but I don’t know how. I’m addicted to noise more than anything else, and it is killing me. The constant stimulation. The updates, the notifications, the incoming messages, the flashing news reels. I don’t know how to escape a world that I love so dearly. The constant distraction of the rest of the world is a great excuse for letting my own life slip into decay. I am minuscule in comparison, but even though my life is small next to yours, I have to remember: it is all I have. It is easy for me to ignore my own life when there are no Vogue-style fashion editorials to walk through, no romantic scenes underneath unseasonal rain, no feasts of the century to wake up to every day. There is nothing cinematic at my life, which is why I no longer look at it. But chokes me nonetheless, no matter how much I pretend this life isn’t mine.

I don’t know how to start from scratch again. I look around me, and all these so-called friends are afflicted with the same exact problem: we are trying to be movie stars in regular life. We are trying to earn our ten thousand likes even though we generally always peak at fifty eight. We are so busy trying to look good in this lighting that we have forgotten: maybe the most movie-worthy thing we can do is tell a good fucking story. Anyone can tower on the silver screen – but no matter how good you look, the story is what matters.

I am trying to get back to my story. I can feel the chapter behind me dwindling down into impending memories, while the future is coming at me in a frightening way. The same question is being shoved down my throat: am I the protagonist in my own story, or am I an extra in someone else’s? I look at the picture I just posted: fifty eight likes. How can I be the protagonist of anyone’s story with just fifty eight likes? Am I an extra by definition?

I tell myself that there is dignity in being my own heroine, even if no one else is watching. I remind myself that people don’t have to watch – that’s not the point. The point here isn’t to be seen. My goal isn’t a mass accumulation of internet attention. I’m supposed to be working towards happiness, which is such a nebulous and intangible idea to work with. It’s a slippery thing to desire, seeing that it can’t be bounded into a single definition or measured through objective metrics. Happiness is my own fleeting beast. All I know is that right now I do not have it.

I try to focus back on the things that are supposed to make me happy. For some reason, it’s much easier to remember the things that make me miserable. I wish I had more money. I wish I had a better car. I wish my house were prettier. I wish I were younger. I wish that pair of pants still fit me. I wish I had a boyfriend who cared about my emotions. I wish my mother would say the right thing when I talk to her. I wish this head cold would go away. Why are these things problems, and why didn’t I appreciate them when they weren’t problems?

I sit on my bed and stare out the window. This is okay. I can survive this. I don’t know why I would want to, but I am going to survive this. Just because – well, I don’t really know why I am making myself survive this. I feel disconnected, disenfranchised. I am a lost soul, yet again, meandering through this world without any sense of purpose or destination. I am drowning in the noise of someone else’s making, but I am breathing just enough to live another day.

I Am Losing The Heavy Weight Championship of Me Versus My Depression

The big beast of depression is knocking on my door again. I have opened up the door, and the largeness of darkness has come in. It is consuming me, just like it always does. And I am lying here, in the night, waiting for it to pass.

I have been here before, beneath my demons which press on my chest and scald my skin. I have survived this before. I can live through this. The visceral pain, which is breaking my back. The heaviness of these emotions like torrents that weigh me down as I try to drag myself from this bed. I can barely move. I can barely breathe. Hours pass, and all I can do is sit here. In darkness.

I try to remember how I got out of this tangle of sin and shame last time. I try to remember how I got here in the first place, the big mistakes I made that crippled me and cut me down at the knee. What am I doing that is constantly wrong? What can I do that is constantly right?

I weep often these days. Some days I am walking down the street and this sense of dizziness snatches me from reality and I stop remembering who I am or where I am. I am sick a lot. I am a long list of symptoms with no underlying cause. I can’t tell if I should have another drink or if it’s time to go home and be alone. My check list of solutions is all crossed out – I have tried every vice and every virtue as a potential salvation, yet here I am. No choices I make can budge the beast of depression, which sits on my chest and smokes cigarettes while I lie here and writhe in agony. This beast will always be with me.

I used to fight. I lie here, gasping for breath in the din of my depression, and I try to force myself to remember what it looked like when I was better. When my life was better. Try to remember, little baby, what it was that saved you. How can I sucker punch my way out of this debacle when my arms are numb and my vision is fading. I am succumbing so much more in every second than I ever was before. I am wasting away. I am vanishing into the ether, a molecule of vapor among all the other molecules of wetness and dolor. I am losing this battle. I have already lost just by being here.

More Musings On Falling In Love

My ex taught me how to manufacture the feeling of falling in love for other people, so whenever it starts to happen to me it feels so fucking scary. It’s strange, because people like me are the reason I don’t want to fall in love. Because there are books out there that people can read about how to flirt and smile, how to seduce and fuck, how to say the right things at the right time in order to elicit those warm fuzzies. For us, it’s all about money.

Being able to synthesize romance is a cruel fate. It’s not that I’m a natural. I just read about it in books and watched the master work his charms. It’s strange to be able to lead people down a path of romance that is in no way real – yet they are so willing and so eager to be roped into the con job. So when it becomes my turn to fall in love with someone else – I am so fucking skeptical. Which makes me sad, because I would like to believe in the goodness of other people. Unfortunately, I know myself too well to trust that other people are not secretly just like me.

Being fake in love with someone just to stave off the loneliness of knowing that you might never fall in love is a pretty interesting experience. It’s like what many women feel sexually – having sex that feels really good but then never cumming. I would say that it’s a let down, but the fact of the matter is: it still feels good, even if this isn’t what it’s supposed to be like. Even though I know it’s supposed to be way better. I am still enjoying myself, and I guess I feel good knowing that the other party gets to cum or fall in love. But I am also definitely jealous, and that won’t end well, will it?

Slut shamers always like to claim that promiscuous people become less capable of love the more people they fuck. The above admissions aren’t meant to validate that claim. Instead, I believe that by fucking a lot of people I have been able to fine tune my ability to get to know, understand and love other people. However, falling in love still feels like a game of random chance that can’t be faked or substituted. Sleeping around doesn’t increase your likelihood of falling in love, but it does increase your likelihood of sleeping with someone you’re not in love with. “Love” and “in love” are very different things.