As is also typical, in those days following my termination, my body mourned its loss with a ravenous uptake in cocklust. How my body wanted to be pregnant again. How it clamored for the thing that would make it so.

Which made me return to menstrual sex. In my mind, anyway, as I was prohibited from letting anyone test the new clotted currents–cervical infection sounding like a miserable malady, after all.

Have you been out in public after hours of fucking? Have you found your way past your squeamishness into the primality of a blood-and-cum pastiche? You are so young. Perhaps it’s all old hat to you and it’s patronizing for me to suppose otherwise. But when I was your age, boys were scared of bleeding girls and they showered after sex.

I remember once leaving the house of a guy on a Sunday afternoon. I don’t have one of those heads of hair that looks wild and sexy after sex or sleep. Mine mats. It expands. I look depraved and homeless. And that morning, I had the skids of my dissolved eyelashes hollowing my eyesockets. I couldn’t find my bra and the rest of my clothes were crumpled from having been balled in the sofa cushions. I was in no state to do anything but get home and launch myself into the bath.

Leaving, I’d commented on our fuck-stink. Sweat and cum and pussy and blood and spit. Each other and ourselves. I  could smell myself, and him on me, and it stuck in my throat. My pussy hummed at it but don’t get me wrong, it wasn’t a pretty smell.

On my drive home, I passed through a tollbooth. I tugged at my hair to hide its raggedness and hid my eyes behind shades. The booth attendant said to me, “Girl, you’re so fine I can taste your pussy from here.” I raised my eyebrows over my sunglasses and laughed. Maybe I should have been offended, but I couldn’t even fake that I was. All I could think was that he probably could.

Before getting home I had to stop at the grocery store for something or other that couldn’t wait until after I made myself presentable. No fewer than four men–men who didn’t work there–approached me to ask if I needed help with anything. Within four feet of me, they knew me. We sense these things about each other. Fecundity. Echoes of gasps. Reverb from spasms. The just-fucked human is a living totem. Like that.

So fuck me, new and bloody and swollen. I am so glad to bleed again. Fuck me like this. Celebrate it with me and I’ll send you off into the night. I know you aren’t mine to keep but, I promise, a red fog of pussy brings only blessings of more pussy. Your gift from a self-blighted demeter.

In other words, dickfuck, I can’t write here because I see your fucking invasive, boundary-challenged, irritating little IP address popping up here day after day. You went looking for this collection of missives, despite my request that you not. You told your friends about it even though a reasonable, rational person would know that this is deeply personal and therefore not the sort of thing one shares with friends — particularly not when it’s about a woman he barely knows.

This writing was always risky for me. And you, asshole, made one of my worst-case-scenarios a reality in your seeking it out. See, here’s the thing: you read this stuff– this bunch of hot air, these long show-off-y passages, these raw and pretentious letters– and you made assumptions about the sort of woman I am and the sort of sex I like. You were not right about any of it. And yet you acted as though you were, without bothering to consider whether your perceptions lined up at all with a much more complicated and conflicted reality of me.

It creeps the hell out of me that you return to read this smutty stuff, but not my other blog–where the messier, smarter, less pure-pussy version of me exists. It speaks to all my anxieties about being wanted as a fucktoy, but without being taken seriously as a fucktoy who thinks. Much less a fucktoy who doesn’t always want to be a fucktoy. But what do you care? You just want the dirty shit.

Well, guess what? You can’t have it. Not unless you steal it. Oh, wait. You already have.

You might be interested to know that what I remember of you makes me shudder. When you’d poke your head around the shower curtain without it even occurring to you that I might not want to be watched while I trimmed my fucking pubes– as though once you’d seen me naked I could never have further use for a sense of privacy around you–? What the fuck? Oh, god. Thinking about it makes me feel like I’m suffocating. How could I have let you into my house? My body? It was awful for me. Months later, my chest still feels tight every time I see that goddamn IP address.

You know, I’ve worked so hard to make myself receptive. I’ve taken pride in the all the work I’ve put into unpacking, breaking down and understanding my own limits so that I could push them without feeling predated upon. And maybe, up until you, I got lucky. People didn’t take miles when I gave them inches. Nor did they go and show my private, anonymous blog to all their fucking friends. But you? You just blindly blundered through without stopping to wonder if any of the liberties you took were, in actuality, being gladly offered to you.

They weren’t. You took far more than I had to give.

Oh, what the hell? While I’m at it, I may as well mention that I’m also still creeped out by the fact that you read my body’s autonomic physiological response as wanting you. Let me take a moment to relay a little factoid about female anatomy to you: if a woman lubricates when someone gropes her in her sleep, it does not mean she’s turned on. It means her body is trying to protect her from being ripped open by a predator. Dude, women lubricate not just when they’re hot, but also when they’re scared. It’s an evolutionary defense mechanism. I shouldn’t have had to tell you I didn’t want to be fucked at 4 in the fucking morning, when I had to get my ass up and haul it to work 2 hours later. Until you, no man had ever so much as tried to take such advantage with me. Why not? Because considerate, respectful, non-self-interested, conscientious men know better than to fuck women in their sleep, you goddamned entitled asshat!

What was wrong with me? My radar is usually so much better than this. My life has been populated with such good men because I have such good radar. How could I have let you slip through?

I don’t know. Perhaps it was, in part. their goodness, their conscientiousness, their respect, their attention to me and my needs that left me unprepared for a man like you. Vulnerable in a way I shouldn’t have been. Shouldn’t be. Bless them for that. Fuck you for taking advantage of the trust-well those men had so generously filled up inside me.

I compromised. I was compromised. My borders. Compromised. Fuck you. I hate myself for it. Fuck you

Oh, yeah, that’s it. The worst part: I’m furious with myself for not having opened my mouth, for lying there in my sleepy haze, thinking, surely not! Surely every 21st Century man knows that consent isn’t an absence of a “no,” but rather, a presence of a “yes.” But you didn’t know that. And you didn’t ask. You simply took.

And your regular visitations to this site continue to take. From me. You are stealing. From me. Do you fucking understand that?

You killed this space. You bankrupted it. Despite your avowals of loving this writing, you’re the reason it can no longer exist. Simply put, I can’t write a fucking thing knowing you’ll read it. Do you understand that this space is not and was not yours? You had no right. Not to look for it and not to spread it around. None. But you made it yours and I can’t, for my life, reclaim it. And I grieve for my loss of it with an anger you’ll never understand.

Shortly, I’ll be taking all my old posts down. I don’t know what I’ll do with them. They may resurface elsewhere. Someplace safer. Someplace where neither you nor anyone else will ever know they’re mine. And they may not.

In the meantime, though, please heed my one request: go the fuck away. Forget I exist. I would already have done the same for you, if my statcounter weren’t giving me such reliable and frequent mementos of you.

You are not now and never have been welcome here.

Do you want to know what happened with J? I’ll tell you, not because you deserve to know, but because this is where I tell these stories. And though your invasive audience threatens me into silence, I’ll force myself to tell it.

All week, we brushed arms in dark theaters. We locked eyes across plates of Mexican food, falafel, beer. I could smell him three or four feet away. He smells like an itch in my throat, soft, aquatic. Your body smells like gasoline, your cock like piss and curry. He smelled like homecoming. And clean and delicate. But not like a woman. Don’t even think that.

With his monkeywrench of a girlfriend situation, we put forth every valiant effort not to fuck. We did. It had been so long since I’ve had a companion who neither made me anxious that I’d lose him or anxious that he’d subsume my consciousness. I was torn; I felt relieved to be near him again but also pained that he was just outside my physical grasp. His decision, not mine. He aspires to a saner life than my libertine ways would allow. I was trying to respect that. I was.

We went out for wine after a movie. We leaned into each other from across the table and discussed his girlfriend. The sex they have. His inability to assess the depth of his feelings for her. Or hers for him. We giggled over whether men at other tables were looking at my legs. I hadn’t eaten all day. A glass and a half in, I didn’t want to drive myself home. We walked back to his apartment.

My head spun. I leaned sideways into his sofa’s pillows and he sat in a chair across the room. More than double arm’s length away– pointedly. I hadn’t planned on finding myself buzzing and alone with him. I didn’t want him to hate me for bursting through the thinly chalked boundaries delineating our fractured intimacy. I watched him across the room, sad that I wanted him even now, after so many years of separation, smelling him but willing myself not to touch him. I focused on stopping the room’s orbit.

“Well, aren’t you going to show me something? You’ve been teasing me all night.”

He started it, I swear he did. I wanted to get sober. The idea of his ensuing guilt and my role in causing it kept me in check. He started it and it surprised me.

“Are you sure?” I said. “What do you want to see?

“I don’t know. Anything.”

I lifted my breast out of my bra and held it so he could see my nipple between my fingers. He watched me so intently. In the eyes. Like he couldn’t even bring himself to see the body part he’d requested.

“Is that all?”

“I took off my panties in the restaurant. You can see that if you want.”

“No, you didn’t.”

“Check my purse. See for yourself. They’re bunched up on top.”

“Why did you do that?”

I didn’t know why I’d done it. Maybe I wanted to see if the scent of uncovered pussy would affect him. Maybe I just got sick of pretending his nearness didn’t make me wet. Maybe I wanted to get really wet, as going without panties tends to make me.

“I don’t know. An impulse.”

“Show me.”

I parted my legs a little.

“You’re breathing awfully hard. Are you sure you want me to do this?”

“I think I might throw up,” he said. “This is a bad idea.”

“I know,” I said. “Don’t throw up.”

“Let me see.”

I spread my thighs wider, obscenely, so he could see deep into me, raw meat, pink and swelling. He looked. He flitted his eyes back up to mine. Held there for a few counts. I ran fingers along the inside folds of my labia. In all our years of fucking and fighting, I’d only touched myself when he was inside me from behind, when he couldn’t really observe me. But he was so intent this time, so lazer-like, on so many of my openings. I applied pressure to my clit; my eyes fluttered closed. I turned into myself for a few moments. Under his gaze, I did.

I flapped open my eyes when I felt him come closer and sit at the other end of the sofa. He was peering directly into my pussy. Instinctively, feeling a subtle rise toward orgasm clear a distant horizon, my legs clenched around my hand. Barely touching me, his fingertips all nervous electricity, he tapped my legs open. He wanted to look. To see all these musky parts of me.

I was wet and needed to touch myself. He moved my hand out of the way, to look deeper. He stood up so as to pace, to stall. He was so hard; he looked at me helplessly. I could see him hard through his clothes. He was showing me. I got wetter.

“I can’t touch you, you know.”

“I know.” I said. Heartsick-wet.

He sat back down, released his cock. It stood, presenting like a tower, pink and smooth above his fly. My mouth watered as I watched him, like he’d watched me. I hadn’t forgotten, exactly, the grace and fibrous dynamism of his pretty cock, but it inspired all manner of lustfulness anew, nonetheless.

“I can’t touch you,” he said as he pressed the flat of his thumb against the opening of my pussy. A sharp breath in and I knocked my knees together. He pushed them apart again, looking, and ran his hand up my thigh and around my ass. He put his thumb on my clit. He got up and took off his pants. He bunched the skin on the side of his cock and ran a finger down the slick sluice of me.

“You are killing me with that,” I said.

“What?”

“I want to put my mouth on it.”

“Don’t.”

“I won’t,” I said. Then I lunged for it anyway. With my nose buried in his furry groin, the head in my throat, I heard a my own voice go low. He smelled so good to me. Salt and soap, and like sand. He was so smooth, such muscularity in his cock.

I looked up. I wanted to swallow his face whole. Resolutely, I pressed my tongue into against his teeth. He didn’t kiss back. And then he did. And it was like feasting. This is that to which build-up and restraint brought us. I wanted to press myself through his skin and live in his body cavity. I kissed him like I haven’t kissed anyone in a year, at least. And he was so hard beneath me. He wouldn’t have fucked me if I hadn’t kissed him. I knew it. My mouth on his: our agreement.

And he did. He fucked me like he’d always fucked me, even though he aspires to a stricter monogamy with this other woman. He is firm and thin and he knows the exact pubic-bone-to-clit, cock-to-g-spot angle that makes me come just when he does. The precision of familiarity. It went too quickly. We rushed it, I’m afraid. I was afraid he’d back out and he was afraid of that too. But this is how it is with old lovers. The habits don’t get broken, only go dormant. We know each other so well that lingering might have bonded us together beyond the constrictions of our respective lives.

That’s what happened. I showed myself to him and he shook me from my passivity. So great was my desire for him, that I rose above my usual come-and-get-me reticence.

What am I talking about? Usual? Passive submission is a new condition of my fucking– and one I do not like. Recently, I’ve fucked too many men I have not liked very well to kiss any of them with any real commitment. Much less wake them at 4 in the morning, my hungry pussy slicking their asscheeks. I miss wanting my lovers, really desiring them, so badly. I don’t much enjoy being subsumed in others’ desire for me, rather than living in my own fuck-fog. And that’s only part of why I don’t want you.

The ridiculous fucktard behind the Spurmo website published this post a while back. I posted the following comment in response, but the weasel took it down. Nonetheless, I think it needs to be said. (Because I had a hunch he couldn’t take a little healthy heckling, I had the foresight to copypaste my comment and send it back to myself. By the grace of this little moment of wisdom, I can bring it to you now. Eat that, Chairman!)

OK, please watch while I diligently attempt to lower my sexist-bullshit hackles which you’ve duly raised with this post. I am breathing deeply… I feel my generally peaceful demeanor returning to me…

Now. Allow me to put forth this as a counter-argument:

First of all, it’s not that easy for a girl to get laid. Even a reasonably cute girl. I mean, if we don’t mind fucking ugly, insecure, baggage-laden, narcissists who are doubtlessly bound to be replete with intellectual shortcomings as well, then, sure, absolutely– any day of the week, we can fuck those guys. Probably several times that day. Or maybe not several times. Why not? Because they won’t be able to get hard or they’ll come in 4 strokes not be able to get hard quickly enough for a second go-round or they’ll be totally sexually clumsy in some other way… and it will be a generally unsatisfying experience for all involved. Sound appealing to you?

Secondly, what’s with this obnoxiously burdensome “women are the gatekeepers” crap? Gee. Thanks for sticking us with that choice task! Do you think this is a pleasant job with which you would like to be saddled? If so, I’ll gladly hand it over. Next time you’re ovulating and your body is so keenly aware of your reproductive viability that you can think of nothing else and you are so sopping wet you slide off everything you sit on and are also required to play coy so as to not scare off a boy who might actually be cute, reasonably savvy in and out of bed and not a total cheesedick, you just let me know.

In the meantime, quit feeling sorry for yourselves. And while your at it, quit using the word “slut” as though it’s derogatory. I, for one, am quite proud of my slutty ways.

kisses,
steamvent

What? I said. Kiss, he said.

Turning my head, he covered my mouth with his. I thought I might suffocate. It was like burying my face in an oiled pillow. I don’t think I’m ready for that, I said. I couldn’t imagine me turning down something so harmless as a kiss, but there I was, doing just that. I saw that he was sexual. I also saw that I did not find him attractive. This confused me about myself, so in tune to wanting those who want am I.

Because I am not attracted to him, I figured it was safe to go home with him. You and I, we don’t take about me fucking other men. I know you assume I don’t and I feel bad about that. I keep meaning to tell you, but our time together is so peaceful, I’m loathe to ruin it.

His place is designed to impress girls. He dresses like the theater nerds I knew in high school. I didn’t know he had money. But square-footage like that doesn’t come cheap in my city. It was unfussy with big, dominant, curtain-less windows. He’s painted the walls in romantic, dusky shades of prune, brick, taupe. There were thick, worn French cookbooks on his counter top. I rolled my eyes a little and tried to stifle my amusement when I asked, How often do you actually use your Larousse Gastronomique? It was my grandmother’s, he said. I did not say, I grew up with a mother who didn’t use her copy for effect alone. But I thought it.

He has one of those fancy refrigerated wine storage units– as tall as an actual refrigerator. I swear, these things are the urban aesthete’s version of the pussy-mobile. Chicks dig fancy wine. Of course, he pulled out the long-stem Riedls. Instead of just pouring for me, he insisted upon decanting. And then he dutifully filled the bowl of my beautiful, razor-thin crystal goblet. I must admit, whatever wine he chose– something Spanish and beyond my frame of reference, I’m afraid– was delicious. So much so it caught me off guard. Serves me right for buying the $5-a-bottle Juicy Juice wine from Trader Joe’s so often.

I fought him all night. He’d reach for me and I’d succumb for a minute and then resist, blaming you. Blaming that I haven’t yet told you what a slut I am. I couldn’t do it without making sure everyone was fully informed, I said. But I was full of shit. I just hated kissing him. If I’d liked it, you never would have entered my head.

Eventually, though, he stripped me naked except for my thigh-highs and plunged his fingers into me. I’d shake him off and lay there, passive and stupid until he came at me again. Again. Again.

Eventually, though, he put his cock in my mouth. Again with the hand in my hair, forcing the rhythm of my head as he forced himself down my throat. I hated the smell of him. It wasn’t just man-smell– though the chemistry was clearly off between us and I hadn’t liked the smell around his mouth and neck much better. He groin smelled dirty and urine-like. I winced from the smell as I sucked him. He heave one-word commands at me. He disgusted me. Suck, he’d say. No hand, he said. Balls, he said. I acquiesced. It’s what I do.

By three in the morning, I was tired from the debate in my head. Was I holding back because of you? Because I did not like him? Because his little displays of wealth amused but did not titillate me? Was I giving in because I hate being the girl who says no? Because I am not yet the slut I hope to be? Were my politics, my refusal to play gatekeeper, silencing my actual desires? Please, can I go home? I said, finally.

Put your hand on my cock, he said.

The next morning, I wrote him an email. I said, there is a deficit of attraction on my end. I find this unfortunate as you seem open to indulging my whims in the boudoir. The archness of my “boudoir” made me giggle as I sent my terse rejection. He took it like a man. It is, indeed, unfortunate, he said. And I thought that would be it.

***

Last Saturday night, you stayed home to watch a documentary in which I had no interest. He instant messaged me at 10. I’d just finished watching a movie on my own couch– something awkward and twisty about sexual awakening. He said, what are you doing tonight? I said, watching a movie. He said, Well, I was going to ask… I said, I’m wearing a wifebeater and pajama pants. I have no make-up on. I’m bleeding something fierce. I’m in no state to go out. He said, those first three things can change. I’ll pick you up in an hour. Teal boots? I said, you’ll take me seriously if I have to stop, right? He said he would. I wasn’t thinking about you. Not really at all, though I’d felt the weight of you on my back as you’d fucked me just that morning.

At the first red light, he pushed my face toward the passenger window. He wrapped some soft black cloth around my eyes.

Oh, I thought. Oh.

I wondered if anyone could see me through the car windows in such a state. I wondered how I’d keep from falling in the 4-inch heels of the teal boots when he pulled me out of the car. But he was kind. He ushered me out of the car like a gentleman and put his hands on my hips to guide me up his stairs. I stood, arms at my sides, as he removed my purse, my coat, my gloves and my scarf. He took both hands and led me to the rear of his place. I was weirdly grateful for not having to look at all his success this time.

Of course, he shoved me face-first into the bed and lifted my skirt over my ass. Of course he did. He began touching me, though, I do think he was a bit tentative. When he went to lift my sweater, he found how ticklish I am up and down the ribcage. I think my reflexive recoiling amused him in the way it would have had I been a very small kid. He liked it more when I fought him, squirming away as he dug fingers under my ribs and ran them along the bottoms of my feet. I am strong, but he is big. Bigger than you. Soon, he had me pinned on my belly. Somehow, I was also naked.

It must’ve been an hour that he worked my clit. I wanted to come. I felt myself open, wishing he’d just put his damn fingers inside me. I willed myself not to beg for it. I asked, Do you want me to come, because you’ll have to take the tampon out if you do. He said, I don’t mind if you do come, but I’m not working that hard for it. I just want to keep you on the edge. And I was. For at least an hour

When he had me wet beyond moderation, he stopped.

Come on. Of course he did. Employing the sly tactic of strategic delay is how these guys work, right? The blindfold must’ve fallen off in all that, because he had to tie it around my head again, catching it in the hairs that had worked themselves loose of my braid. He rolled me to my back and reached for my wrist. One, then the other, then both legs, he secured in leather restraints that he’d so carefully secreted away under his bed.

I wanted to see if I could get out. Of course I did.  They had hook releases, which I swung around so that I could work them from the palms of my hands. What? I said, I never said I’s always cooperate. He pulled the straps so tight as to engage all the muscles in my arms. Perfect, I thought. If only I wanted him.

He brought out the toys. Much to my chagrin, I’ve yet to encounter a man with such a selection as he. Where are those dirty boys, out there? I hear tell he’s not the only one. But you’re certainly not among them, are you? If only.

In any case, he has a Hitachi. Yes, that mythic beast of all vibrators. That barbaric porpoise. He rubbed it along my thighs, inside and out, and I quaked in anticipation of it. It made all the vibrators I have at home look like mewling kittens. Or rather, feel like that. He turned it on low and pushed it very slightly against my clit. There is no arguing with it. Blindfolded and spread eagle, I couldn’t move much to press into it, but, oh, how I wanted to. In under 10 seconds, I was on the precipice of orgasm, and he knew it, so he took it away.

You like it, do you? he said. I had to catch my breath. He mounted my chest, pushed his dick into my mouth. The smell again. He held the back of my head, refusing to give me air. I can withstand this, I told myself, for the promise of getting to come under that pounding, wicked machine. He still wouldn’t let me use my hands to make him come. When he’d had enough, he dismounted and settled, sitting akimbo between my spread thighs. You want more of this, he said, running the little jackhammer down my flanks. It was a statement, not a question– but who was I to disagree?

He put it to me and in an instant, I felt the waves of it rolicking up my pelvic floor. I came so hard I could not stop coming for, he told me later, nearly 45 seconds, for this man in whom I have no interest whatsoever.

After, he came quickly into my hand. Little interest in my pussy.

The night was fueled with novelty. The leather manacles. The cat-o-nine-tails. The blindfolding. The endless mechanized orgasm. I wish it had all been your idea, your doing. I know you don’t have it in you, but it doesn’t stop me from wishing you did. Or from wishing that it was he, and not all his fancy accoutrements, that made me so fucking hot.

So, I’m telling you here: I’m a slut. Too many needs for just one man.

But it’s not true. Even if it’s not as regular as I would like, you are keeping me from having an actual dry spell. Im grateful for that. I’m grateful that my pussy hurts from use and is still wet, even as I write to you tonight. You did, after all, whittle away this very morning in my bed.

I still don’t know what to make of us.

These days, my heart hurts. I feel like an asshole most of the time. I’m missing old lovers I never should have loved in the first place. I’m impatient and irritable and I abhor this cold, dark season. I always do. I’m tumbling recklessly through a series of bad moods.

And yet, once or twice a week, I cling to you in my sleep. And you to me. I’ve never slept so entangled with anyone before. Nor have I wanted to. But I feel as though you’ve triggered some rarely illumined bodily need of mine– one I did not know I had.

We press our skin together like cave people, for warmth. To protect each other from some scary thing outside ourselves. To speak through pores what other orifices cannot say. Or something.

The sex? I don’t know. I wish you’d talk to me. Tell me what you want me to do to you. Make me service you.

I do love your hot cum on my belly, squeezed between us in one of these prolonged, fortified embraces… don’t get me wrong. I just wish I could ride you just a little longer, drag out my orgasm, hang on the edge for a bit, let you feel me from the inside for as long as you can. You come fast. Faster than I might like, but not so fast that I don’t have a chance. But still. Fast.

You are sweet and gentle, though your fat cock stretches me upon entry every time, and leaves me memories of you every time I touch myself for a couple days after. I like that part. A swollen, post-coital cunt is an underrated thing.

But what is this? These fierce graspings all night long? You don’t tell me enough about what you’re feeling, you know. I sense our loneliness and worry that we are placeholders for each other. Unflaggingly considerate though you are, I am not sure your politeness, or the full-contact sleeping for that matter, belies your actual affection for me.

And you do not know how I’ve been sad. How I have shed important, though toxic, friendships and lovers. How I cannot fall for you because you only show me your mind in your writing. How I need more than that. How I’m scared to give you more than polite waking detachment and yearning confessions in my sleep myself. Because I don’t know if you want more than that.

So, we fuck and we cling, trying to push these little meta-messages of our brokedown hearts and wailing distances we feel between ourselves and all the other humans– pushing them through our skins.

You are not my boyfriend. And I wanted to call you moments after you left this afternoon. I wanted to ask you to turn around and repeat this morning’s sofa-side reprise of last night’s urgent penetrations. I wanted to offer up the red shoes and thigh-high woolens again. Would they have lured you back?

But in that desire, I felt needy and annoyed that my libido couldn’t leave me be for even an afternoon. I thought better of it.

Because what I really wanted to ask you is if you feel something here or if I’m just better than no one? A body to fuck and hold. Even a body that will discuss film and literature and politics with you, when called upon to do so.

But I am sick of being this lonely, nervy thing, groping for you, pressing my tits into your back in the night. I want to know you.

In other words, I find myself unnerved by your impassive benevolence. Talk to me.

****

Another morning, shortly before we woke, I dreamed of fucking Jennifer Lopez. She licked and licked and licked me, like you do. It felt slow and languorous. Like it does with you. But I wanted to sit on hard dick; I wanted to come. Of course, she had none to give me. So, she rolled onto her back and presented me with her wide bowl of a pelvis. As I looked at her tightly trimmed delta, I thought of how beautiful she is and I thought of cock. I sucked her clit and she came fast with no need for cock at all.

Later, over coffee, I did not tell you about fucking Jennifer Lopez while you slept next to me. Should I have?

I still think all those things are true. I cannot respect one who wants me only for the good I do his ego. Especially when I see him wanting another woman for the same singular reason. You owe us both more than that.

But I feel forced to admit that I also miss the shit out of you.

What’s it been? A month and a half? More? This is hard– you are everywhere and are so easy to find. Any time I wanted, I could lift a single finger and we’d be speaking again. And I do know that it’s my responsibility to initiate our making up this time, seeing as I was the one who swore you off, once and for all. For good. With finality.

I thought I’d feel relieved. Everyone I trust promised me that I would. Do I even have to spell it out that I don’t? Well, it’s true. I don’t feel that way at all.

There is no one around to take your place. You served an important role for me, and I assume I meant something similar to you. I don’t call anyone when I’m tired or lonely or anxious. I’m pretty good at self-soothing, but it’s nice to have an ear sometimes too. You were always that. The one person I told everything. I don’t know how long it’s been since I just gave up trying to keep parts of myself private from you. Trying was never any use. I always wound up telling anyway.

And now, I make educated guesses about what you’re doing every day. When I was home for the holidays, I drove by your apartment building and looked for your car at least 3 times. The first time you weren’t there, I figured you were with your family. I made the same assumption the second time. When you weren’t there the third time, I figured you must be with her– poor girl (destitute of all she has yet to learn about you). Though I told you I was erasing all your contact information from every technology available, it won’t surprise you that I didn’t. I see you are on line even now, as I write to you and debate whether to send you this thing. And so I know you are home, not visiting her. Your IP address tells me you read my blogs. I know you are thinking of me too.

I remind myself several times a day why it’s prudent to keep these channels of communication silent. Knowing that you have not changed is motivation enough to keep me quiet. For now. I will not send this. I won’t. I won’t. I can’t. I shouldn’t.

I’m sure you’re wondering if I’m going to write about how much I miss fucking you. I always write about fucking. Why should this email any different, you’re thinking? So sure, yeah, I miss it. The man I’ve been fucking lately is gentle and his cock is thick. I like his cock a lot. it’s smooth and has a heft that yours does not. Sometimes, I find him hard when I don’t even expect him to be. He is also kind and smart. We talk without breathing. Often, I forget that I want to fuck him as we rarely stop talking enough to let that tense, charged, portentious pre-fuck moment descend upon us. We are easy together and enjoy each other. He writes. I found him to be a lot sexier after he let me read his book. Brains are hot, after all, aren’t they? In other words, he and I don’t suck together. He wants me to edit the book for him. I will do a good job, too.

But he can’t fuck me like you did. He just can’t. Fuck, I hate saying that. I don’t enjoy admitting that and it makes me even angrier at you. I’m imagining you smug as you read this. You shouldn’t be. You and I weren’t perfect fuckers together. There were times when you bored me. There were times when you just didn’t make me wet. But then again, when you did make me wet? Jesus.

Why you never told me all the dirty things you wanted to do to me until it was too late, I don’t know. You should have. I would have ridden you reverse cowgirl in movie theaters. I wouldn’t have fought you if you tore into me. I would fuck your new girl for you if you wanted me to. I would have found other dicks for you to suck while I sucked yours. We could have really played together. You should have said something earlier.

But now, lately… these days… I just miss your endurance. I read this a few days ago and had a sinking feeling. This is the difference between what was wrong between you and I and what is wrong between he and I. He knows I come hardest on cock and yet he denies me until he’s too hot to hold out for more than a handful of thrusts. He eats me and eats me until I’m shuddering with the ache to be filled… and then he makes me come before I’ve gotten near enough of him. Afterwards, when we’re lying there, with his cum slick between us, his cock softening between my wet thighs, I think of you. Of how you’d let me ride you for an hour. More. And More. How you’d test me and make me beg to come. How, in your cruelty, you’d fuck me harder and harder to see if I could hold my own orgasm until you gave me permission. How much I wanted to follow your orders, to impress you with my control, as you impressed me with yours.

I like him. He’s a good man. He’s obviously not the last man I’ll ever fuck, but he is good for me right now. There is no drama. There is no chaos. Nothing hurts between he and I– nothing whatsoever. I have developed some affection for him. He’s the least stressful fucking partner I may ever have had. But fuck me, he is a quickdraw. How ridiculous that he makes me wish my pussy was looser.

Tell me: what do I do? Do I send you this? Do we go back to where we were? You guilty about how desperately you want to fuck me while trying to fall in love with a girl you only kinda like? Me the dirty mistress, helpless under your perma-hard hard on? We can’t do this. We can’t go back there.

But I miss my best friend. Without you, I don’t have anyone to whom I can tell all this. There is only, and can only ever be, you. Fuck you for that.

He too knows she is a work of art, the lucky rare woman who is a work of art, classical art, beauty in its classical form, but alive, alive, and the aesthetic response to beauty alive is what? Desire.

via Nightmare Brunette

Is this true? If it’s beauty in human form, is the first response always wanting to fuck it? I would argue that a woman’s relationship with beauty is a little more complicated than Mr. Roth’s. I mean, sure, I want to fuck beautiful humans. Beautiful bodies, individual parts thereof– including faces, if I might be so trite– make my teeth itch, so eager am I to have a taste.

But also? I want to become it. If you’re a girl, how you look is part of what you bring to the table. It’s not pretty. This notion doesn’t fall within the realm of the going feminist thinking of the day. But it’s true. Though we get to see pretty pictures of the objectified male form any time we want these days, a man still need not be beautiful to be desirable. Or to get fucked. And there’s this: would I rather have the sexiest man– or woman, for that matter– in the room draped on my arm, or would I rather be the sexiest girl in the room? Well, the latter of course. Heaven help me.

What of that sinking feeling I encounter when I’m not the most beautiful woman in the room? What of the urge to crawl into the skin of the woman who is? To see what it’s like to be desired as much as she? To see how much easier it is for her to get laid?

So, who has the most vampiric relationship with beauty, then? Those who seek to own it via fucking it? Those who seek to own it by internalizing it? Those who crave both the fucking of it and the turning into it, left both insecure and aroused by its presence?

When I was a child, I had chronic nosebleeds. Man, did I have nosebleeds. They’d start spontaneously. Or when I sneezed. Or when my brother jostled me too hard. Or when I was around cigarette smoke. Or when I got stung by a bee. In math class. At school dances. Waking me in the middle of the night from sound sleeps. And they’d bleed madly. Thin and blue-red, then thick, clottier blood, soaking wads of tissue. For half an hour at least.

Once, when I was six, after having been in the car with my grandmother who smoked, my nose bled for three hours straight and I had to go to the hospital for an emergency cautery.

Once, when I was 17, I was sucking the cock of the boy who should have taken my virginity and I felt a hot blot of blood fall on his stomach. We still laugh about it.

By the end of college, they’d gotten so bad I was having 4 of these 1/2-hour gushers a day. It was a gigantic waste of time.

I’d been tested for every blood abnormality known to modern medicine– at least twice. The doctors decided that whether I had this disorder or that one, I was a borderline case. I am something of a free-bleeder, but nothing too serious.

When I was 21, I had my nose cauterized by electric needle, as opposed to the usual silver nitrate escharotic solution–which I’d had performed 6 or 8 times by the time I was a teenager and already knew it didn’t solve the problem for longer than 6 months at a time. I’ve only had 2 nosebleeds since– and when they happened, I’d actually forgotten what to do.

Regardless, I still bleed like a motherfucker whenever prompted. Tiny nicks from shaving take at least 45 minutes to clot. I stepped on a shard of glass last summer at the pool and the tiny hole in my heel produced such copious pools I thought I was gonna make the lifeguard pass out. Such a pussy. I had to staunch and bandage myself.

Due to poor foresight, I scheduled my yearly pelvic exam for this morning– forgetting completely the utter predictability of my womanly calendar, which had me bleeding by yesterday afternoon: right on the dot. When I called to cancel, the receptionist asked, “Is your flow really that heavy?” I stifled a giggle, saying, “um, yeah. It’s that heavy.”

And it really is. These first two days? This blood courses through me with pulses. My pussy fills with it, swelling my clit to a point of constant arousal. And the blood itself is slick. Warm. Feels like so much slippy lubrication. Later on, it becomes sticky and thicker and feels less like the usual pussy juices. But right now, it opens me, pounds through me with heartbeats. Literally. I feel my pulse in my cunt. Makes me want to fuck.

It’s inconvenient as hell, of course. Menstrual sex requires orchestration, to say the least. But then again, wanting it so badly makes even the idea of my blood smeared over your thighs and mine, matting your hair against your stomach seem hot in a Fight Club-y kind of way.

***

I do not understand my attraction to you. You are calm and kind, though your body is shaped strangely, with your wide-splayed feet and the way your chest caves a little over the top of your ribcage. I do not like kissing you and it’s awkward every time we see each other. Nonetheless, I am fully wet within moments of folding into you and I sleep more soundly draped sideways on the bed, flung across your back and ass. Often the ways in which my body seeks respite are mysterious even to me.

Maybe it’s not so mysterious. It’s probably your cock. Though it seems to disappear into the crevices of your legs when you’re not hard, it’s fat-bellied stoutness locks into me, strumming my g-spot from whichever angle you enter. It’s so fat at the base– it feels like it stretches me a little every time you bore into me. And when you push all the way in and hold there, it’s all I can do to keep from coming on its mute clubbishness– almost immediately.

I may never get over the sheer novelty of being penetrated. Though I am not an unimaginative sort of girl, it is the thought of this simplest, most mundane of sex acts that makes me wettest. For all the years I denied myself cock–because I was heartbroken and practicing brahmacharya, because I fell in love with a girl, because I’m just not outgoing enough to get as much dick as I’d like, as often as I would like, as various as I would like–it is the unadorned sense memory of being invaded by someone else’s tensile flesh that makes me come when I am alone. No need for more elaborate scenarios. Sadly, nothing gothic or twisty. Just straight hetero intercourse. The paradox of dick– meaty,malleable like no dildo could be, yet stubborn, steely–insistent. Alas. Never fails me.

When we fuck in real life, it’s the psychology of knowing you are so hard, rubbing out against all the blood flooding membranes of my cunt, my clit. Your cock forcing every iota of my attention to its point of entry. Sometimes I wish you wouldn’t make me come. That you’d just fuck me there on the edge for hours, just to see how long I’d hold out. Blood rendering me slick and yielding, and you… me polishing you like a stone.

Your idea of stress relief and mine are a little different. More than a few times in the last week or so, it’s crossed my mind that I need to be fucked hard and aggressively– to the point where I’m sore and exhausted– where there is just no room for thoughts of anything else. Now, ordinarily, this might be possible– but for some reason, all my black-book entries seem to be out of town or they’re sick or they’re trying to be monogamous pussies at the moment or they’re too busy themselves to help me relieve tensions.

Here’s an article about this poor woman who has 200 orgasms a day.

It’s true what you say– that I’m pretty hyper-sexual. Many days, I just can’t think because my body feels so damn over-sensitive. I often describe it like a haze– like a warm, thick, pinky-purple cloud behind my eyes, in my throat, filling my whole pelvic cavity. It’s embers candescing in my cunt. It’s every trite heat-related metaphor for sexual arousal of which I can think. I am wet more often than not. I do my best to grapple through it, but often, it’s like fighting cobwebs. The more I scratch at it, the more it sticks, cocooning me. It’s frustrating and nowhere near as much fun as it sounds.

But I can only imagine this woman’s pain. She says, “”Often, I’ll want to wear myself out by having as many orgasms as I can so they stop and I can get some peace.” Poor thing. I’m not saying that ironically, either. I mean, seriously– imagine never getting any relief from that insatiable ache. Imagine that getting off did you no good. That no sooner than you finished, you were clamoring for more. That you never get to that great sleepy, blissed-out oxytocin inebriation after.

I feel lucky. It only take me four or five orgasms in a string to give myself a break. But even that.

It feels like a lot sometimes. This is why I tell you that no partner to date has been able to manage my demands. And how much I hate how needy it makes me feel. How my own body heat is red and and how it stifles.