Sadist/Feminist

I wasn’t always a feminist, but I always had a knack for keeping men in their place. It’s interesting to see my talents recontextualized in the framework of social justice, especially because being brazenly and openly defiant of men was always considered one of my less appealing characteristics. But I did it anyways because I was good at it, and also because it was fun.

Over the years, for better or for worse, I have honed my “me first” attitude whenever I’m around men. Whether it comes to sex, or ordering at a restaurant first, or getting a promotion, I’m always willing to cut the line and restore the natural order of things. I’m also willing to gloat about it and being a total fucking asshole even when there’s nothing to be gained from it. I just like winning, and I especially like winning against men.

If it weren’t for this nth wave feminist movement, I would be relegated to some corner of society and labelled “piece of shit” and left to rot. However, because the gender wars are at full throttle these days, being a piece of shit qualifies you as some sort of feminist hero. Yeah – I stand up to the man! Take that!

Normally this is all fine and dandy, but I’ve started to notice lately that part of the movement is smiling kindly on average women resorting to these kinds of tactics. While I’m glad that I get to blend in with the normal people, a part of me feels like: uh oh. The reason I like sticking it to the man, consequences be damned, is because I am, admittedly, a straight up sadist. I’d be doing this dumb shit regardless of whether or not it were politically in vogue. I just happen to be lucky that I’m existing in the right place in history. However, seeing all these nice, normal girls indulge what are otherwise my sadistic fantasies feels…kinda icky.

If you’re not a sadist and you do sadistic things to people, there is a palpable spiritual price that you’ll wind up paying. Being cruel can turn you into a sour person. Being mean makes you mean. Unless, of course, you’re a sociopath. But we shouldn’t be rewarding sociopathic behavior in the feminist movement, right? Sure, I know it’s all cool and shit to be mean to men, but, girlfriend, trust me – if it’s not you, don’t do it. It’s not worth it. Leave the sadism to the pros. You just be your nice self with your nice values and your nice life. It’s not your responsibility to make men cry.

However, if you find that you truly enjoy being a sadist and it has no psychic bearing on your soul – hey, girlfriend, let’s kick it! We got some shit to talk about.

An Angel Among Demons

I am daddy’s little girl, draped in all white, sitting in the middle of a filthy world while these demons eddy around me like moths to the flame. Daddy always told me it would be like this – that to be pure in a world like this was a curse, not a blessing, but to leave this world unscathed would be the greatest ecstasy of all. Daddy knew I was a child of God, filled with goodness to the brim and bursting with mercy. He saw inside me the beauty of God, and he unleashed me into the world like the scion of light that I am.

Daddy is gone now. And I am here alone, wandering through this cold, cruel world without him, without a map, without a clue. I am an angel clawing through this empire of dirt, filled with monsters who already know my name. I am starting to lose sight of what is wrong and what is right, who is God and who is the Devil, what is pleasure and what is pain. My light is starting to fade.

It is impossible to be an angel in this place. Everyone is blood thirsty and salivating at the change to bite into fresh flesh that has been untainted by the sins of man. I can feel them, breathing down my neck, nipping at my heels, calling my name and luring me into lurid orgies of godlessness and skin. I resist, but what am I resisting for? When on the other side of “no” is another wasteland of dust and demise, which is just a different kind of demon with a more miserable name.

To be here is to run, always. To never sleep. To never sit and sigh, to never satiate myself, my need for sleep or food. No wonder everyone is looking for a savior. No wonder everyone pretends to be a savior when one is needed so desperately. We are greedily roaming towards the trap of redemption when none of us truly deserve it.

I do not know how to be an angel among people like this, people who are so gray with sin and destitution. People who by anyone else’s word is a demon but who themselves cannot behold their own demonic countenance. There is no need to sparkle like a diamond among rhinestones – thieves pay no mind but spill blood for either nonetheless. Truth is a mimicry, and to speak anything real is to get lost in an echo chamber of twisted lies and cackling.

How the fuck do I get out of this place. Who the fuck can I trust. Where is Daddy now, when I need him? How can I find a friend?

This is how you found me: crouched in the gutter with the light in my eyes slowly waning. I had been darting through this world trying to evade the inevitable, the visceral pain. And you found me. You found me here, weeping, and you took me by the hand, and you led me somewhere calm and cool, and you washed away my tears. With your hand caressing my face, and in a sudden moment: something beautiful in a world where I did not know beauty could breathe.

This is how I came to be a part of you. This is why I belong to you. You took me when I was low, and you cleaned me from the filth that was wrapped around my soul so tightly. You released me from the din and disaster. You freed me from myself, or at least the person I had become while I had been laid to rot here.

When I was whole again, and shining brightly in the night, you took me to the edge of the world and told me what it was called: love.

You filled me with love, and you told me about all the things that love can do for us. You told me about all the things I could do for love. That I could prove my love for you over and over again, and in doing that, our love would be better. Bigger. More ready for the world to see. That it would spread, that our love would conquer the world. That the light I had been carrying all these years – it would blossom, and this world would be a better place. Finally.

This is how I became a bad person.

Slowly at first, but then all at once. Time is like an illusion, and after enough of it had passed, the redness in your eyes became brilliant like fire. The light in your heart, which at first felt so kindred, was drowning everyone around us. Your arms wrapped around me in tender embrace grew tighter, and your hands on my neck and my heart sprouted claws that dug in, drew blood, deceived me. At first, I believed the story that love can be pain, but I guess the problem is that pain can sometimes just be pain without love at all.

Which is how I wound up there, with the best intentions in my heart, and the devil’s dick up my ass, bleeding, and screaming, and crying. I thought we were going to save the world. All we did is let you ruin me, with the whole world watching. The whole grey world, which used to pass me by with such indifference, now jeering and cheering the devil on. This is their spectacle, the fall of grace, the ruination of woman. For the whole world to see. And I wouldn’t leave here, even if I could, with my bright white garments stripped bare from my breasts and my angel’s halo shattered on the floor. I am one of you now, right? I belong to you now, don’t I?

If only Daddy could see me now. Getting raped by the devil and loving every minute of it. His alabaster baby now muddy like the rest of them. I have thrown my purity into the crowd where they have eaten it like hungry beasts. I have cast off all virtue and taken up the pastimes of sin. I romp with the devil, and he loves me. More than Daddy ever did, which makes me wonder: who’s the devil now, Daddy? The devil, who loves me with every inch of his black hearted dick, or you, Daddy, who left me here to rot.

I am rotten, all right. Rotten like grapes that turn into wine, and now I am drunk, too. Without you or your morals. Just me and the devil. In a kingdom of hurt, and I wonder how can this be hell when everything feels so good? The devil, with his claws at the edge of my lips, promises me: Daddy will be down here soon, too. The devil says I can watch you burn. And I will enjoy every minute of eternity as me and the devil frolic around your burning corpse.

The Myth of Consequences

I found myself drunk and screaming in the middle of the street again. In a moment, I realized: it’s been a while since this happened!

I stepped back a bit and had to ask myself, hey, girl, what’s really going on here? Why, after all this time, are you still doing shit like this?

Ugh. I know. I’m supposed to be too old and too mature to do shit like this anymore, right? I’m supposed to have learned from my mistakes and moved on. I’m supposed to let things go. I’m supposed to be the bigger person. Oh, fuck, I just can’t help myself some times.

I realize that I picked up this bad habit of screaming at people in bars and parties back when I was a young woman. It happened to me on several occasions – you know what I’m talking about here, those old scenes of me, talking to some guy, and then some dude I fucked last month comes up and screams that I’m a slut. Yup. That shit.

I know that I’m supposed to say, oh, it was so horrible, no one should ever have to deal with that, it’s humiliating, blah, blah, blah. But, unfortunately for you and the rest of the world, that’s not how I operate. Mostly, when I see men doing something that I can’t do, I get very upset, because I should be able to do that, too, right? That’s feminism for you.

Yeah, I know it doesn’t look good, and I’m aware that men who yell at women at parties are pieces of shit. But you know what else? They fucking get away with it.

Oh, men get away with the craziest shit. Men get to sexually harass and touch women for years and years and years, and the worst thing that happens to them is they have to take six months’ leave, or they just go work at a different bar. Men protect each other. Men defend each other. Men even manage to rope women into putting their careers and financial well being on the line for them.

I guess I don’t get it. Yes, we’re supposed to be making the world a better place, I know that’s what we’re supposed to be about here. I get it. But I also don’t think I should have to consistently take the L just because of this nebulous, nonexistent thing called the moral high ground. I know it’s supposed to *feel good* to be morally superior to other people, but, you know what? Maybe I’m not a morally superior person. And maybe it also feels good to get away with shit.

So here’s what I’m saying: if they can do it, I’m going to do it, too. I don’t care if it’s wrong or bad for me or makes me looks shitty. If they don’t hold themselves to higher standards, then I think I should be able to operate on the same, criminally low standards, and still not have to deal with consequences.

I learned this behavior from you. I am like this because of you. You did this to me, and now you’re upset that I don’t know any better?

I still deserve love.

So, you can stay here, and you can love me, or you can leave me and let me rot like this. I’m not saying I’m unwilling to change. Fuck – for you, I would do anything. I am even willing to call a truce. In fact, I would prefer a truce to this chaos. But until there’s a truce, I’m not playing nice because I’m not the sucker who stops throwing punches. I didn’t throw the first punch, but I think I deserve to throw the last punch.

Truce?

The Guaranteed Cry

Gangsta Boo was getting on my nerves. I think he’s off his meds, off his rocker, on drugs and on one because, ooh, honey, this is getting intense. I was getting a little sick of all the abrupt and inconvenient golden showers texts, so I had to ask him to bring back some of the romance for a little bit. I know he’s in a weird place, but I haven’t seen him in almost two years, and, um, who starts off with golden showers? What does he expect is going to happen? I’m just going to show up at his door dressed like dog and let him greet me with a steady stream of piss first thing? If we start there, where do we end? Oh, he’s for sure going to maim me if we start with piss. Which normally is whatever to me, but I had to pull the “My dad just died, can we chill the fuck out for a second” card because, in all honesty, there’s some guaranteed crying that’s going to happen when I see Gangsta Boo again and I don’t want it to be while he’s beating me with that steel rod I have because then I’ll just seem like a weakling, and I am not a weakling! Gangsta Boo is probably the only person on this planet who would be really into the idea of fucking me while I cry and blubber about my dead dad. Out of all the crazy sexual things I’ve ever been into, “Can I talk about my dead dad with your dick inside me and then can you tell me how much you love me” is a pretty hard ask, even for people I love and trust, but, y’know what? I need it. I think it will be therapeutic for me, even if ultimately I’m going to wind up with piss down my throat and a gun to my head, or whatever it is he wants to do to me this time. Honestly, I haven’t cried about dad yet, so…gotta get these fucking tears out somehow. God, I hope he cries, too. Ugh, how gross is that, just two people fucking and boo hooing all over the place. Oh, fuck, I’m getting wet just thinking about it. That’s hot.

Am I really going to do this? Is this really happening? Eh, fuck it, isn’t this why you sick fucks read this blog? Gotta keep y’all coming back for more.

Another Day, Another Dox

I was schlepping around the Internet yesterday because that’s just what I do, when I stumbled upon a rather interesting post on Facebook. I’ll admit – my interest in Facebook is waning considerably. It used to be such an interesting place to meet new people and talk about interesting things, but lately it’s just become an echo chamber filled with pictures of people’s dogs, clickbait personality tests that are actually just data mining scams, and tepid, regurgitated, and depth-less political opinions. The only reason I’m still on Facebook is because of the #metoo movement – Facebook seems to be the #1 gossip site for outing shitty rapists, and while posts like that pop up only once or twice a month, it is TOTALLY WORTH IT to keep Facebook just so I can catch some fresh, piping hot tea.

This is what happened yesterday, and, yes, it completely validated my use of that website.

Somebody posted about some pirate punk guy, saying that he was a rapist (shocker) and a tweaker. I was combing through the stories, feeling empowered as usual, when I realized: oh, shit, I know this guy! Oh, I used to work with him! As I read through the stories of abuse, I remembered: I have a shitty story, too!

I used to work with this guy five years ago at my first bartending job ever. He did door, and he lived in the same neighborhood as me, so we shared cabs home a once or twice. This is back in the pre-Uber/Lyft era, and let me remind you: cabs never came when they said they would, they were way more expensive, and Oakland cabs tended to have an unsavory creep factor to them if you were just calling the cab company because Carlos was too booked up to pick you up.

One time, on one of those usual late nights, after closing up the bar he offered to split a cab ride home with me. I accepted because, like I said, cabs were expensive and hard to come by, so sharing a cab was the logical thing to do. We got in the cab, and he asked me if I wanted to come over to his house. I didn’t. It was late, after 3 am, and I had worked a full bar shift. I just wanted to go home and shower and watch cartoons. Not to mention, this guy was a pirate punk – no thank you! Also, he was old. And gross. As in, never, I pass, get away from me, I just want to go home.

But he kept on pressing the issue. Come on, come over, we’ll have a drink, blah, blah, blah. No, no, no. He kept on telling the cab driver, “Just go to my house,” and I kept insisting that we go to my house. It was awkward for the cabbie, and as we rolled past my house, he told the cabbie to keep going. At this point the guy was getting close to me, grabbing me, trying to kiss me and prevent me from leaving the car. The cabbie slowed down, confused as to what was going on as the guy told him to keep driving. I flung open the car door and hopped out of the car as it was still driving and ran down the street to my house.

The next day, I told my boss and that guy was promptly fired.

I had totally forgotten about this incident until I saw that guy get doxxed on Facebook for being a rapist. Part of me thought, “How the fuck did I forget I jumped out of a moving car at 3 am in West Oakland to avoid some guy harassing me?” And then I remembered: oh, yeah, I was being harassed by the majority of my coworkers at that point in time. That was just a drop in the bucket.

I tossed my story into the Facebook comments, and then wondered: how much is that shit still happening in my community? I’d like to think that after Charlie Hallowell and the #metoo movement that these kind of issues are being dealt with and perhaps decreasing in incidence, but, honestly, even when I was in the thick of it, I didn’t know who I could talk to about these kinds of things.

We all deserve better.

Investing in Your Relationships

One complaint I hear from men during our era’s particularly ferocious gender wars is that they hate paying for everything, whether it’s a first date, deep into a relationship or alimony. There are a lot of socioeconomic factors that impact this imbalance, most of which point back to traditional gender roles and the glass ceiling. I know, I know, feminism is here in full force, so the question is always: why do men still pay if feminism is working? Well, first of all, yes, feminism is working, but we’re not even close to full throttle with this whole feminism thing, so until the glass ceiling shatters, I’d keep that argument in your back pocket.

Second of all, and this is my real question: why are people afraid to invest financially in their romantic partners?

Sure, there are those outliers who will fleece you for everything you’ve got, and it has created a cultural paranoia around being used by your romantic partner for your money. But, let’s be real, if you’re reading this, you probably don’t have so much money that somebody is going to invest the hours upon hours upon hours upon hours that it takes to fleece you. You’re probably in that big, vast middle part where your net worth isn’t that impressive, so let’s leave this paranoia behind for now.

Back to the question: why are people afraid to invest financially in their romantic partners? First of all, we’re not really taught how to invest in our romantic partners, whether it’s financial, emotional, or even with our time. For example, what’s the amount of money that is appropriate to spend on a first date? A first date if you expect to sleep with that person? A first date if you expect to sleep with that person and just have it be a one night stand? A first date if you want to have a relationship with that person? A friend of mine took a first date to a two Michelin star restaurant, and, honestly, I don’t even know if they slept together. Obviously, a two Michelin star restaurant is a ridiculously high bar. A more reasonable bar is, well, an actual bar. If you’ve asked someone to spend time with you on a date, the bare minimum you should expect to invest in that person is the cost of one drink. Sure, that varies depending on where you go and how bold your date is, so choose between dive bar and cocktail bar accordingly.

Spending $20 (not total, but on the other person) to meet someone new and then never talk to them again is a reasonable price. If things are going well and looks like you’re going to hook up, a $40 ball park (spent on that person’s bar tab) is also a reasonable price to pay. Mind you, this is an investment that you’re making not only in getting to know someone else but also to have an experience, depending on what you do and where you go. Sure, you could have spent your night alone at home, but you chose not to. You chose to go on a date. And perhaps you chose a new bar that you had never been to, and that $20 you just spent was an investment in experiencing a new bar not alone. You also invested $20 in having relevant dating experience, practicing your conversation skills, and leaving the house. Sure, sometimes the date is a disaster, and your $20 was a bad investment, but that’s the thing about investing – sometimes it’s a good investment, and sometimes you just lost $20.

If you’re not willing to weather the risks of investing your time and money into dating, then don’t do it. Your money might be better spent on an experience with a guaranteed positive outcome, such as cam girls or at the strip club. Granted, $20 on a date that lasts two hours is a way better deal than two hours at the strip club (unless you’re a piece of shit), but that’s the thing with money: you get what you pay for.

“You get what you pay for” also applies to dating beyond date one. This is true in more than just a monetary sense – it is true in regards to the amount of time and emotion you put in your relationships. Constantly being cheap with your partner – and by cheap, I mean undervaluing your partner and demonstrating this by the way you spend time, money and emotions with them – makes for a cheap relationship, and who wants a cheap relationship? Personally, I prefer the real deal. Of course, this isn’t to say that you should go into debt lavishing your partner with expensive gifts. “Cheap” is different for everybody, and investing looks different at different socioeconomic tiers. Yeah, we all want the hotel suite and the champagne and the oysters and blah, blah, blah, but a good partner also knows it’s a lot more meaningful when a person with $100 in their pocket spends $50 on a date than when a person with $1000 in their pocket spends $150 on a date.

Really, it’s about letting your partner know their worth in the relationship through a variety of methods, and spending money is one of those methods because we live in a capitalist society. It’s about continually investing in your partner so that you can continue to increase your partner’s sense of worth in the relationship, and ideally your partner will continue to demonstrate value. It’s part of relationship maintenance.

Falling into capitalist traps, however, is not a part of relationship maintenance. This seems to be where the miscommunication is happening. Like my friend who took his first date to a two Michelin star restaurant, the romance industry has seen the value of bumping up the price on expressing appreciation and investing in your partner’s worth. Romantic gestures have become de rigueur, and as someone who benefits from that more often than not, I enjoy that, but I also understand that it can be a money trap. Especially in the Instagram era, romantic oneupsmanship has become a measure of self worth, but it’s not really a measure of a successful or happy relationship. Which is why we have to figure out how much we’re willing to spend on our dates or partners at different phases of a relationship. We have to make our investments smartly.

It’s also important to keep in mind that financial investment in a partner is not a substitute for our emotional investments and our time investments. These three things work in tandem to make a good relationship, but the financial investment is often time the first investment that you can make in a relationship. It’s a precursor to the emotional investment, and it can indicate someone’s generosity and willingness to invest in other areas of a relationship. Of course, even after all this, your investments could totally tank and leave you under water and flat broke.

So, how much are you willing to invest?

Power Play

I was getting a drink with a friend because, y’know, I need an infinite amount of male attention. I was using the opportunity to bitch about my dating life, and I guess along the course of the conversation I dropped the off handed comment that, “I’m a crazy bitch.” I generally don’t condone negative self talk because it’s unattractive and creates a negative, self reinforcing feedback loop in my self esteem. But I’ve been in a self deprecating mood ever since my dad died, and also that has caused me to drink a bit more than usual, so I’ve been slipping up on several fronts. I make it a point to only say nice things to myself and about myself. I don’t even like to say “I’m going to hell!” because I think this will all pan out better if I convince all of us I’m going to heaven. I also never refer to myself as fat (but sometimes I gain weight or am bloated), ugly (but sometimes I have bad skin days), stupid (but sometimes I do or say dumb things), or any other adjective that demeans my sense of self worth because I am free to choose either high self esteem or low self esteem, so why not choose high self esteem? They’re both free, but the low self esteem costs more.

However, my drinking companion picked up on my slip up. “Why do you think you’re crazy?” he asked me.

“Well, my dad just died, so I’ve been in a weird place, and also I feel like it’s easier for other people to contextualize me if I say that I’m crazy,” I mumbled, trying to foist some intelligible bullshit out of my drunk mouth. I didn’t really want to think about all the things that make me feel unstable or insecure or different from all the other normal people I see parading around all normal in my life.

“Look me in the eyes when you’re talking to me.”

Oh. Fuck. Called out! I realized: oh, shit, this is hard, and also unexpected, and also almost uncomfortably intimate for a dive bar on a Friday night, but – fuck it!

“I want you to be comfortable being vulnerable with me.”

Oh! Fuck! Yeah! Damn, an exercise in wanton and transgressive vulnerability? Sign me up!

As I sat there, looking him in the eyes and articulating why I said that in particular, I was struck by the intensity of saying something you don’t want to admit in the most honest way possible. How often to do we really make eye contact with the people we talk to? It is, admittedly, incredibly sexy.

And such a bold power move. I was not expecting that. As an overly self assured, somewhat cocky and intermittently narcissistic woman, I’m used to steam rolling people. I try not to be an asshole about it, but I know how to guide a conversation to the place where I want it to go. I can’t remember the last time someone took the control of a conversation away from me entirely. There was something about it that felt thrilling, intimidating, even.

I really love and very much crave good d/s play. There’s something about the tender forcefulness that really does it for me. I had been really excited to see Gangsta Boo because we had such a great d/s relationship, but he went over the line of “loving domination” into the territory of “just straight up abusive,” so I had to pass on that one.

As I sat there, looking in his eyes and talking to him, I realized: damn, he kinda scares the shit out of me, but also how can I get more of this all the time? I think I could get used to this.