Update From the End of the World

He howls when he cums, and he cries in the night. Soft gentle sobs emitted into the darkness when no one is looking. But I am looking with one eye, rolled up between sheets like an outpost of comfort. Come here, baby, be close to me baby, let me hold you, baby. Skin to skin contact, let me feel your heart, and you can feel mine, so you won’t feel alone in quick moments of crisis.

He is a beast with two faces – a simulacrum of rage, a gut full of tears. Or, at least these are the faces I have seen today. There are many more faces than that. More than I will ever see. More than he would ever show me. These are the faces I get to see, oscillating at whim from one to the other. With his dick in my mouth and his teeth on my flesh. With that knife at my throat while he’s making me cum. Then I bark like a dog when I’m cumming because pet loves master and master loves it when pet barks like a dog.

Love Later in Life

He sits there slipping slowly out of the bottle of vodka I got from across the street, and I survey the carnage in my bedroom of a few days of fucking and drinking. Earlier when he was on the phone, he told his friend, “We’re in our 30’s now, we don’t do that kind of stuff anymore!” I wonder if he knew that was a lie, or if it was an accident, because here we are, doing the exact same shit we did five years ago when we met, and which we probably did with other people for as long as we can remember. I agree that certain things have changed – my bar fly days seem to have just been a phase, but apparently being a fucker is a lifelong condition. It’s a terminal disease, just like my blood lust, which I’ve started to notice is a communicable disease, one that I’ve gotten from him, and I’m getting sicker by the hour. It doesn’t matter – I’d rather be sick together than healthy alone. Which is why we are lying in my bed yet again, gnawing on chicken bones, my head on his chest, the TV always on. Shenanigans. Apparently these are our shenanigans. He has baby fever, and I wonder how soon before I catch it, too, and hopefully by that time he hasn’t been cured of it. I can feel myself becoming more a part of him. I can’t sleep at night if he’s not around. I can’t sleep when he’s here, either, so I guess I’ll just enjoy the rest of life in a state of semi-somnambulism with my arms wrapped around him. This used to be all about fucking, but nowadays it’s more of a race against reality, with the two of us doing a relay race like rabbits around a loop that leads us nowhere but right back here, over and over again, for years now. Nothing changes when I’m here with him, while the rest of the world rots away. I can’t stand to be anything other than here with him. I would light the entire world on fire and watch it burn to the ground if I could just have this, here with him, forever.

Anarchy in the You & I

“I do whatever I want, when I want, how I want.”

I do, too.

He wants to consume me whole, and I want to be consumed by him. Which is why I find myself wrapped up in him with no regards for the consequences.

Which is why I find myself feeling slightly powerless in the face of someone who can’t be controlled. Not that I want to control him, or that I would even know how to control him if I could, but there’s something daunting about the inefficacy of my standard feminine wiles in the face of absolute rudderlessness. It keeps me on my toes, which I guess is a good thing, because I can’t ply him with sex or liquor or my day one street smarts. The only thing that works in this mutual descent into chaos is good, old fashioned, straight forward communication. I also realize that the love I give him has to be bigger and better and stronger than the love I give to anyone else – carbon copies of the affection I had for lesser ex boyfriends simply will not do in this situation, not unless I want to get crushed under the weight of my own emotional inadequacy. There’s no cutting corners here, no sick days, no excuses.┬áSo I suit up and get ready for the long haul.

Which might make you wonder: what do people do when they do whatever they want? Me? Well, I’m thoroughly content to sit in my 13″ x 10″ bedroom in Berkeley, California, drink and fuck until I am satisfied. Him? He’ll do the same, with a sneer on his face, and when he’s done he’ll retreat somewhere dark and do what he really wants to do: make me watch while he dies slowly and painfully of a broken heart that the rest of the world gave him.

Story Time

He sits in my bed and eats his chicken wings in between telling me lurid, colorful stories about his childhood. I sit and listen and lovingly dab sauce off his chin while wondering is this fascination, obsession or just observation?

I have finally figured out the way in which he reminds me of my father. When I was young, my father would drive me to school and tell me stories about his life. I would sit there, rapt, and later, at night, I would wrap myself up in fantasies of my life being just like that. It must be the same thing with him, listening to a life I’ll never live, yet sitting here in my slice of his life, wondering if I’ll make the final cut.

I’ll probably never find out. I’ll never be able to know what’s truly in his heart, which isn’t because he doesn’t try to tell me all the time, but just because that’s the nature of humanity. All his stories starring someone else sound so right and so true, but as we sit here, together, my sense of reality is slipping into something slightly ethereal. Like this moment is all I want out of life, but it is beyond my grasp, slithering out of my heart and into my head where it will sit for the rest of my life like the ghost of a love that used to be.

All I want is to always remember what it feels like to wake up in his arms. The temporary bliss of skin and skin contact which always seems to give way to the monotony of every day which stands between me and him like war. Why can’t I have the good times with him forever? Have I not yet earned heaven?

See Me

He sees me. He sees me for all of who I am. All of who I really am and not just the person I pretend to be when everybody’s looking. He sees the best things about me, and the worst things, too. He sees the things that are wonderful about me, and the ugly bits, too. The unmatched intelligence, the embarrassing gaffes. The flights of fancy, the horrible moods. My moments of generosity and warmth, my selfishness and iciness. Me when I’m dolled up and pretty for the streets, and me when I’m menstruating and cranky and greasy. He sees all of it, and he doesn’t run away, even when he sees the part of me that wants to hurt him, ruthlessly, and with no remorse. And he knows that there will always be a part of me that loves him. He isn’t scared by the fits of rage, the lasting tantrums, the egomania and the lust. I guess he isn’t scared by that, because even beneath that, he sees the part of me that only wants to hurt myself. He takes me, and he holds me, and he tells me, “I don’t want you to hurt yourself anymore, but even if you never stop hurting yourself, I will always love you.” I look up at him and respond, “I know you are the same way, too. I would eat all your pain and let it sit in my stomach until it killed me, if only I could, but I know that I can’t to do that. Your pain is your pain – it will always be your pain, and whatever you have to do to live with that – it doesn’t matter, because I will always love you. Even when the pain hurts the most, and even after its gone, I will always be here.”

Boyfriend, Boyfriend, Boyfriend

“Why don’t you have a boyfriend?”

It wasn’t really the question I expected to hear. I wanted to immediately retort, “How do you know I don’t have a boyfriend?” but instead, I kept my cool and asked, “Why don’t you have a girlfriend?”

He proceeded to tell me why he didn’t have a girlfriend, and the conversation veered in that general direction for the next few minutes. However, we never got back to his original question: why I don’t have a boyfriend.

That’s fine. I wouldn’t have known how to answer that anyways. I don’t think I would have given him the answer he wanted, namely, some sob story about an ex, or waiting for the right person, or blah blah blah. In all honesty: none of the above. The real answer is an amalgamation of a few things, namely my post-hook up culture lifestyle choices, a general disdain for titles and labels, “focusing on my career.”

Since this conversation was happening in a semi-professional setting, I couldn’t really tell if he had lobbed this question at me as a way to ask, “Are you fucking someone already?” Answer: yes. Aren’t we all fucking somebody? What he really wanted to know was: am I emotionally attached to someone I’m fucking? Answer: duh, have you read this blog at all? Although, the right question to ask should have been: are you too wrapped up in your other partners to take on new lovers at this time? Answer: I don’t fucking know, I haven’t thought about that because no one has been worth the effort of thinking about it.

But, that’s not what struck me about the conversation. What struck me about the conversation was: damn, I’ve done a really good job of separating my professional life and my personal life if you have to ask any of those questions in the first place. And by “personal life” I mean that this blog is still my dirty, little secret that neither hinders nor helps my professional life. Cool! I guess I’m proud of myself for that one, but also perplexed because it was only three years ago that I was in constant professional peril because of my after work sluttery. Is it that people forget that easily? Or they just don’t care? Sure, our attention spans are embarrassingly brief, so I’ve been allowed to slink out of one corner of perception and into another. It’s not like I’ve been actively hiding this blog, or the other one.

On the other hand, it struck me: would I know what to do with a boyfriend if I had one? The fact that he straight up asked me why I didn’t have a boyfriend as opposed to if I have a boyfriend made me wonder: does society expect me to announce it if I’m fucking someone? How did he know I didn’t have a boyfriend? Am I supposed to post this shit on social media? I post about the people I fuck on here all the time! Is there some crucial element of social etiquette that I’m missing here?

At the end of the day, I have to admit: I rode pretty hard for hook up culture back in the day, and I’m from the Bay Area, so maybe this is just a cultural difference laid bare. When I was younger, I always kept my boyfriends under wraps. I never posted pictures with any of my boyfriends on Facebook, Instagram, Twitter, or whatever. It’s not really my style – I think when I was younger, I got into the habit of being perma-single so I could sleep around guilt free, and having a boyfriend really fucks with that, and now that I’m older it seems incongruous to post a couple picture on the Internet. Or, actually, it’s more that I spent so much time investing into my image as a boyfriend stealer that I’m not going to fall into the same trap that I set for every other jilted woman in Oakland. If I have a boyfriend, then my boyfriend is my boyfriend, and that’s my business, and not yours. And if I don’t have a boyfriend, that is also my business, and also not your business. Maybe that will change some day, but today is not that day.

At the end of the day, if you don’t know my relationship status, it’s because we’re not friends, and I don’t want to share that information with you. Leave me alone.

Meditations on a Mitigated Fan Base

In a logical continuation of my revisitation of all that crap I wrote on the old blog, Jesus Christ, 2012 was a weird year. But, mostly, I was surprised by 1) how blatantly ratchet and indifferently cruel I was on the Internet when it came to everybody in Oakland and 2) despite that, I still got a lot of love in my comments section and inbox. Which made me realize: huh, I definitely start a lot less shit these days, and no one comments on this blog anymore. Which is fine – I’ve rehabbed my image considerably over the last seven years, and that rehab has been quite successful. I guess it’s just a bummer that “rehabbing my image” meant “sacrificing my dream of being a sex blog hellion.” Of course, the reason I sacrificed that was because I wanted to make real money, which, I know, I know how tacky it is to be a sell out. But – actually, it’s more than just that. I guess I was just kinda over starting shit with people. Well, the world’s changed. There’s that, too. Because of “feminism” I’m not super inclined to start shit with other women. I gotta practice what I preach, right? And seeing as feminism cashed me out pretty hard last year, I feel a sense of obligation to uphold some of the basic tenets of feminism, such as: be nice to women and don’t drag them for sport. So, there’s that. But, also…I mean, wow, I was just getting all sorts of love letters in my inbox back in the day. And I miss that. I wonder if the lack of anonymous love letters has more to do with 1) the fact that I’m a sell out these days and I don’t promote my blog because I didn’t make enough money for the amount of time I put into promoting it 2) not starting shit with people has significantly lowered my profile in the Oakland scene so people aren’t aware that I’m crush-able 3) my pronounced allegiance to Urban Outfitters-style feminism makes me less approachable on an anonymous Internet level or 4) let’s face it, I’m not 24 anymore, and the years of self abuse are starting to show on my face a lot more. It’s probably a combination of all four, but, wah, I love anonymous love letters so much! And seeing as there are only three people who read this blog nowadays (Hi Kelsey! Hi David! Hi Gangsta Boo!) all I can really say is: sure, I guess I’d rather have the actual, tangible love of those three people than the anonymous inbox messages that don’t really do shit for me in the rest of my life. Fine! I’ll take the real deal over the tepid Internet knock off that anyone can buy on Amazon for $7.99. Also having peace in my life and not constantly looking over my shoulder and wondering what kind of behind my back shit talking I have to counter in order to survive is pretty nice. Ugh. You’re right. My life is definitely better now, but in the moments I take to revisit my own glamorization of the most salacious bits of my previous life – the nostalgia kicks in, nice and heavy.