So long, farewell

I guess I never did a final post, huh? It felt presumptuous, believing that enough people read this to warrant a farewell. But now I’m drunk enough to believe I’m a demigod of blogging, and I owe you a histrionic exit.

What better way to say bye than to tell you what really happened?

I slept with a married man. I joined the Dirty Mistress Club. He made me sign a spoken waiver of trust, of promised fidelity to our infidelity by way of cheating on this blog.

He didn’t need to ask me; by the time I was on top of him, my head thrown back with a moan, I wasn’t about to write any of it. I may be the most sinful Baptist-turned-vixen of them all, but even I wasn’t about to announce that I was having an affair. Oh, the judgment!

Anyway, I’m not sure why I cared. The thought of judgment bothers me, yes, but only because I want to be respected as a feminist, a writer, a woman, a vixen, a sinner and a saint. It sounds paradoxical, but it isn’t really. Sleeping with a married man hasn’t made me less of a feminist or a writer and certainly not less of a vixen or a sinner. Perhaps less of a saint, but I hear they only like it in missionary anyway.

Somewhere along the way, after the first time we had sex, and that took a while (just to affirm my goodness and all), I stopped trying to feel guilty and accepted that I didn’t, I don’t, at all. The whole thing made me think about marriage, about relationships, about commitment, about adultery, about monogamy, about the concept of “the other woman,” in ways I’d never needed to before.

What came out of it was a resounding: “Fuck that noise.” A relationship is between the people in it, including their problems and their decisions. If he wants to cheat, if he wants to betray and lie, then my only role in that is to decide if I can look past that kind of dickishness and still want to sleep with him.

I could, I did.

I liked sleeping with him. I liked the way he always got me off, no matter what. It was never a question. Never. It’s the first time ever I can say that I’ve had an orgasm every single time I’ve had sex with someone. He made sure of it. Mostly with his tongue.

He was flirty when in person, especially in a crowd. He’d catch my eye and give me this look that simultaneously said, “I’ve seen you naked” and “I can’t wait to see you naked again.” It was sexy and made my lady bits salivate for more.

And yes, I liked the scandal, I liked the secrecy, I liked having something so forbidden that even I, shamelessest, wasn’t going to write about it. I liked the way it made me feel like I had this thing that was all mine, like a daydream fantasy gone real wild.

And, of course, I loved the boundaries. I loved that we could never get too close. At a certain point, I closed myself off to him, never showed all that I am to him. We’re funny together, and personable and have great conversation, but it ended at this invisible barrier. And it felt so good, so safe, so addictive, to know that I couldn’t get hurt.

He didn’t hurt me – not because he cared so much, but because I didn’t care so much. You can only get hurt if you care enough to hurt. It was perfect. And fucked up – I just heard it. But it was liberating, too – acknowledging my flaws. seeing my shortcomings and accepting those limitations. And embracing them doggy style.

It wasn’t all orgasms and rainbows, though. While I couldn’t quite summon guilt, I hated the thought that if she found out, there’s a possibility she’d feel stupid. I’m not worried about betrayal but feeling stupid. Typical. Then again, I don’t assume ignorance on her part.

Anyway, romanticizing and debating the morality of affairs isn’t the goal of this post.

This post is to say that I cheated. I slept with a married man, and somehow, most paradoxically of it all, it has made me acutely aware that when it comes to sex and the L Word and relationships, I should be entitled as shit.

These assholes for whom I’ve put on makeup and exerted energy, ew, just, ew, what was I thinking? I could name them off, one by one, and link to entries about them – but I think a resounding “ew” just sums it up a lot faster. Take your pick, they’re all idiots.

Let me be clear – it’s not about “realizing my worth” – that’s puritanical bible-school nonsense. It’s about entitlement. I have a degree, a good job, clearly sex appeal isn’t a problem, I’m charming and have a killer personality. I’m entitled to the same. So it’s basically like the bullshit worth thing but bitchier with better shoes.

So the blog has halted because my dating life has halted. I have a career and a puppy and friends and things about which I actually care for which I want to make time. Lame dates playing fucking putt putt at the goddamn H Street Country Club just don’t make the cut. Which unfortunately means they don’t make the blog. Which means there’s no material and… thus, no blog.

So sleeping with a married man liberated me by allowing me to keep a secret. I needed some time within myself (and him within me?) to sort it out. I don’t want to date idiots, and a dating blog in a city like DC demands you date 100 proof idiots for fodder.

And plus, the puppy is a better cuddler.

—- The sober farewell—

This year, writing this blog, taught me more about myself than I could have hoped and brought more incredible people into my life than I could have dreamed possible. I loved every single experience, good, crazy, weird or just funny. And please, you know I’ll still be dating. I’m the tall redhead in boots with a big smile. Ask me out. Just don’t be an idiot.

I’m working on a new project – 27 Before 27. Clearly, it’s nothing more than a template with a list right now, but I’m working on getting it started. It’s 100% copycatted from one of my favorite blogs on the whole of the interwebs – The 30 Before 30 Project. I have a handful of entries written that I hope to post soon. I hope you’ll follow that journey.

Thanks for reading, and go forth and give orgasms.

even fuck buddies should mind their p’s and q’s

The only thing about a fuck buddy relationship that should be hard is the man’s dick. But no, of course, it has to be complicated.

I was watching The Good Wife last night, and there was this great quote: “Complicated relationships are a breeding ground for misinterpreted actions.” Doh. Yes, yes they are. In the solid relationships in my life, it’s pretty unusual to have a major misunderstanding. The complicated ones? Good god, every word, every text, every character in a tweet carries messages I don’t even know they do.

Anyway. So I’m fucking someone, clearly. And the sex is so good. It’s so good. Did I mention so good? You know why it’s good? He gets me off, every single time. He wants to go down on me, he wants his fingers in me, he wants his… well, you know, he wants to try new positions… It’s so good. And best of all, even better than the orgasms (possibly) is that he makes me feel sexy before and during sex. There’s no better way to release someone’s inhibitions than to make them feel comfortable, wanted and sexy.

But he’s an asshole.

It’s a simple, cliched story: he pursued me for months with no regard for my hesitation or coy dismisses. He wooed me with what felt like, at the least, well-acted interest; he put in the time to dispel my notion that he was, in fact, an asshole. And when we finally had sex, and it was so good, I found myself genuinely shocked that I didn’t hear from him after.

I wrote that entire paragraph to say, LISTEN TO YOUR GODDAMN INSTINCTS.

Anyway. So I knew his game, that I got played, and I let him know what I thought of it. Surprisingly, he did some Grade C work at convincing me that he wasn’t a dick and the timing of the coitus sucked with his post-coitus schedule.

Right. Yep. Mmmhmm. Which is exactly what I thought when he said it, but I don’t have serious feelings for the man, so I shrugged and decided, “Welp. If he keeps flirting, I’ll keep fucking. The sex is that good, after all.”

He kind of did. Kind of. We didn’t have sex for a while. And then we did, and it was oh so orgasm-tastic. But I told him, before he left, I said, “Wanna go again?”

Right. I did say that. But after that, before he actually left, I said, “No sex without flirting.”

It was a simple demand. And by simple, I mean: if a sexy woman wants to fuck you without the baggage of emotions, and her only request is that you flirt with her prior to doing so, I’d say, FLIRT, MAN, FLIRT.

Except, apparently, for ASSHOLE, flirting is too much. Flirting requires wanting to talk to me, wanting to do that thing he did for MONTHS prior to the sex, where he was interested in me, in my life.

HAHAHA

No it’s not. I didn’t ask for meaningful conversation, right? I asked for FLIRTING. I asked for texts that tell me what he wants to do to me, that I’m sexy, that he’s thinking about what he wants to do to me, etc.

It’s not challenging.

If flirting is a difficulty for him, punctuality is an impossibility. When we make plans to sex each other, I don’t hear from him for hours. Hours. If at all.

Except that I do, you know, 10 or 15 minutes after our plans have expired, by the time I’m sitting on my bed in my lacy thong writing a blog post about HOW EVEN FUCK BUDDIES SHOULD MIND THEIR GODDAMN P’S AND Q’S.

But then I take a deep breath and with the inhale remember the orgasms that come with that Asshole, and I text back, “Yep, see you soon.”

Scarlet letters

M,

Remember the man that I told you about – the wildly inappropriate one, a bad choice? We’ve been talking, texting (sexting), seeing each other for a month or so.

I slept with him Saturday night. Then, of course, fell asleep with tears still in my eyes Sunday night after I realized he’d already joined the MIA Dickbrigade.

I’m really stupid. It’s not like I thought this was going somewhere. I at least knew that it couldn’t end well. I deserve no sympathy. I looked at the minefield that the thing with him and me was… I stared at it, analyzed the consequences and frolicked through it anyway.

But the bigger picture here – this theme of men pursuing me, and then discarding me once we have sex – every time it happens, it robs me a little bit more of my sexual confidence and security. So him being inappropriate for me aside (though that’s pretty impossible, I understand), I feel shitty because he did that exact thing.

When it happened (the realization that I was in the post-coitus discard pile) last night – I sent him a text saying, “Right. You got what you wanted, and you’re done now. Cool. Congrats.” I turned off my phone and left it at home today. Mature? Maybe not. I don’t know.

I feel jaded because I know how this story goes. He will 1) say I’m imagining things, making me doubt myself  2) place the blame on me, which will make me feel crazy (ie – that text assumed things, accused things, you’re imagining things) all to not appear to be an asshole, further compromising my feelings for his gain.

Maybe me saying I know he has already discarded me is a self-fulfilling prophecy, but I’ve been here so many times that I’ve memorized the script; I know this feeling in my heart and gut too well (his cold turkey stop to the flirting and texting was a hint, too). 

I thought it all through before I sent the text. I know the routine, and I’ve let it work on me – I’ve doubted myself, blamed myself and apologized, only to realize how played I was and repeat the cycle with someone else. It stops now. It has to.

Anyway. That was that. I’m hurting, maybe more than I should be, over this. It was just another guy, I guess, but in all the possible negative outcomes to this situation, I never expected he’d simply toss me out like yesterday’s trash, or maybe I just hoped.

I made a poor choice, and I’m moving on.

C

C,

Doing this one thing that you wish you hadn’t doesn’t make you a bad person.

I mean, it’s true — each time something like this happens, you lose a bit of the excitement of an active sex life. You’re no longer the free sexual being that you are, but someone who’s a little afraid of the effects of sex, someone who doesn’t feel in control of her sex life or her post-sex life. And that’s the real tragedy in the whole situation.

In order to take care of yourself, you need to start choosing better situations. And I mean, the only way we choose better situations — or are more confident in our choices — is by having these bad choices under our belts, for context, for comparison, for the future.

I love you so much. It breaks my heart every time I hear about these assholes and the aftermath of what’s supposed to be fun. Any advice or opinion I give to you doesn’t come from a place of I could do that better or C could do that better – but from an objective position of, that didn’t seem to work for her last time, but she’s probably too close to the situation to see the similarities.

I think it’s a good you left your phone at home today.

I’m sorry. I love you.

M

Katy Perry’s got nothing on my Friday nights

“Wanna go to a party Friday night?”

Sigh. “I don’t know, it has been a nearly 60 hour week. Friday I work late, too.”

“Meet me at 9:00. It’s all you can drink.”

“Had me at all you can.”

On Friday, I came to the office dressed to work with a bag of dressed-to-party set beside me. I was proud to have thought of everything, down to deodorant and perfume (Ralph Lauren, Romance. Always.). It wasn’t a date; it was one of my too many guy friends in the city who aren’t vying to date me (they crazy, clearly!), but there could be hot friends of his up for the taking. I came prepared.

As I left the office in a tight black dress with my hair newly straightened and face freshly made up, I felt good. Confident. Sexy. Until I passed by the White House, when suddenly, a bolt of panic jolted through me, crashing me into the gate, forcing me to catch my breath.

I forgot the right underwear.

I hate panty lines. They make me more self-conscious than a pizza sized pimple would. It’s a thing. I’m neurotic. So what? Right before I reached my hand up my dress to take them off right there, a police officer walked by. His serendipitous approach kept me from getting arrested for public indecency. Bless that man.

I made it to the bar (ducking behind trees, walking up against buildings, etc) and ran to the bathroom, throwing them in a ball in my purse before the door closed.

The Disaster Master, as I affectionately call him, was at the bar waiting for me. All-you-can-drink ended at 11:00, and it was already 9:30; we had some catching up to do. We downed two before grabbing a third and meeting his friends.

Of the seven of us, two were couples, two were… us… and one was a questionable guy who questionably had a girlfriend. It didn’t stop him from hitting on me. It didn’t stop me from letting him and flirting back.

By 11:30, Disaster Master had to drag me from the bar, as I giggled and, he swears, batted my eyelashes at his cute, possibly unavailable friend. Yes, I’m a disaster master myself, sometimes. (Okay, all the time.)

We meandered drunkenly, laughing, back to his place in Shaw, making fun of each other for, well, everything. He made us some concoction he called a cocktail. We drank and swapped stories, getting drunker and increasingly easily amused.

In the background, music was playing – some bizarre mix of top 40 and ‘80s. I hadn’t noticed it much, until an oldie came on. And I mean, an ancient oldie. Some 1950s hit that I’d never heard, but the Disaster Master jumped up and started belting and dancing. My eyes were wide with mock horror. He grabbed my hand and pulled me up to dance.

The alcohol had given us each about six feet, and we stumbled over each other and the lyrics, laughing harder than I had in a long time. It was so fun I forgot where I was or what time it was, and the next thing we knew, we were still dancing around his cramped living room at 3:00am.

I stopped spinning. “I’m exhausted.”

And we burst into laughter again at the ridiculous declaration.

“Let’s sleep,” he said with equal declaration and walked to his room.

With a shrug I followed him. We’ve been friends for so long I had no qualms with sleeping with him – and plus, no way I was taking the couch.

“I even have a t-shirt you can wear,” he said, tossing me an old college shirt.

Without caring he see me in my underwear, I caught the t-shirt and pulled my dress over my head in one swift motion.

…and then the room stood still. His head snapped up, and he stared at me. Stared. His eyes went wide with shock.

I was confused. And then it hit me: the White House, the policeman, the bar, the bathroom, the -

HOLY FUCK I’M NOT WEARING PANTIES.

Mortification swept through every cell, every fiber, every inch of my body as the realization hit: I was standing bare-vagina, in only a bra, in my dude friend’s room.

Then my body acted without bothering to consult my mind:

I took off my bra.

WHY DID YOU TAKE OFF YOU BRA? I screamed at myself, as I realized I was now standing butt ass naked in my dude friend’s room.

I mean, sure, if I had shown my embarrassment, I would never have lived it down. Not ever. Maybe somehow, subconsciously, I thought I would avoid all that and act like I didn’t care? Without thinking, my body acted again:

I shrugged.

Then I threw on his t-shirt, walked to his bed and jumped in, my heart pounding so hard I could literally feel it in my bare ass vagina.

He watched me, his eyes trailing every move I made – a look of shock and dismay and confusion taking over his entire body, and his jaw dropped.

Then he slowly, hesitantly, started to pull on a pair of shorts, his eyes still stuck on me, a mix of terror and shock still filling them.

“Nope,” I said, my voice surprisingly calm, considering my insides were nearly vibrating with terror. “If I can’t wear pants, neither can you.”

Did I just demand my dude friend get in bed naked with me? What the hell is wrong with me?!

He confusedly and slowly walked over to the bed and lay down. Carefully, very carefully.

I rolled to face him to say goodnight before giving in to total mortification and embarrassment and hope that we were much too drunk to remember this in the morning.

But before the words came out of my mouth, his mouth was on mine, his hands on me, and we were hooking up.

I guess that’s what happens when you forget you’re not wearing underwear around a guy friend, get naked in front of him and demand he get into bed without pants?

Yeah, I guess it is.

Moral of the story: Too many to count, y’all, too many to count.  

No Duck Dumplings at Ping Pong Dim Sum

Finally, The Epilogue. Catch the whole story with Chapters 1, 2, 3, 4, 5 and 6. Thanks for reading!

Dear Ping Pong DIm Sum, please oh please start serving duck dumplings. I will be your very best regular forever and ever. Love, C

It seems that in D.C., the better the sex I have, the less likely I am to see the man again. The worse the sex, the more texts and calls and bad wooing attempts I receive. The inverse correlation is depressing, to say the least.

So The Real T and I fizzled out after our great sex. Sure, we texted a little after. We even went on an “I swear this wasnt about sex….entirely” final date.

We met at Ping Pong Dim Sum on Friday night, the week after all the great sex. I was hesitant and nervous. He had been kind of MIA, and I´m not a dumb woman. I assumed his interest had waned. Truth be told, we were probably at the same place. The thing between us had always been too friendly with too much attraction. It seemed we were both playing the parts to get to the good stuff. It was unbalanced.

But I was still excited. With that kind of sex under our belt, I didn’t particularly care if we developed more emotional intimacy or not. Friends with benefits, or, you know, fuck buddies, would probably have been fine with me. Our sex, his views on sex, the physical connection between us – it was enough to keep me hopeful the sex could live on, if nothing else.

We met at 7:00 by the bar. As we waited for our table, we chatted nervously (or maybe that was just me). It wasn’t as natural as it had been before, when mutual desire had directed us through the alleyways of conversation.

“This week has been exhausting at work. Ive been so busy,” he started.

Groan. He couldn’t be more obvious with the passive aggressive apology at having been absent.

“I even have to work tonight. We have clients in Hawaii… five hours behind…”

His words floated in and out of my head. I comprehended some, missed most.

He had to work tonight?

When you’ve been out with someone multiple times, already had sex and agreed to a Friday night date, well, I, for once, don’t make plans for later. I expect it to end naked.

Though I didn’t begrudge him having to work, and I, still, don’t believe he was making up excuses, I did find it inconsiderate that he hadn’t told me beforehand. He found out that day, but even a late afternoon text to give me a heads up, to stave off the inevitable disappointment and allow me time to compose myself and make other plans, would have been appreciated.

The rest of our evening was fine, really. Fine, I guess. The food was delicious; it was my first time there. I still gave him my best smile and flirty eyes. He still caught my eyes and locked his on them. He still offered me that orthodontic, knowing smile that suggested he wanted more.

It was a show. It was a final performance, designed to make us feel better, like – look how we tried! and pat ourselves on the back. He grabbed the check – didn’t accept my offer to pay. It was all part of the performance – the noble final date that just didn’t lead to more, organically. Planned organic endings. My least favorite.

He ordered coffee after dinner, around 8:30. By 9:00 we were walking towards Gallery Place. He offered me a ride home; I declined. He hugged me goodbye, and on second thought, gave me a quick kiss before heading towards his car.

I walked over to the bus stop, leaned against the building wall behind me and felt the cold sting of tears on my cheeks. I texted Not A Lucky Girl and Roommate E:

He has to work tonight, and I’m crying at 9:00pm on a Friday night waiting for a bus in Chinatown. How pathetic am I?

Their texts echoed the same sentiment:

That was rude and his third strike. Next! Get back to H Street and let’a have drinks! You’ll be over him and onto the next guy before the night’s over!

Of course, by third strike, they meant: he had left me hanging after the night we met and again after we had sex. They were right. I headed to meet Not a Lucky Girl and Shoes at Queen Vic for drinks.

I didn’t get over it that night, though it was a good one – filled with too many of Bartender Shannon´s drinks and laughter. But I was over it that next week.

The next night, while sprawled out on Bach’s couch watching Indiana Jones, I told him the story. He, of course, gave me his best sympathetic, “I told you so” look.

“Right. You were right,” I sighed. “It’s not that I want more from it. It’s that, I need to be done by myself. I need to make the decision to walk away.”

He looked at me quizzically. “But, it sounds like it’s probably already over.”

“But I still have to mentally decide to be done myself.”

“That makes no sense,” he shook his head and went back to the movie.

It didn’t make sense, outwardly. But it did to me.

When I dig someone, I tend to wear my feelings out, until all that’s left is the broken remains of them. This time, I was bummed, but I also felt wronged. I felt like I needed to walk away on my own, regardless of whether I’d ever hear from him or not, as an act of self-solidarity – realizing my own worth, cheesy as it sounds. I needed to reclaim my feelings as mine, instead of ones that can be dictated by those for whom I have them.

So I decided to be done. I heard from him once after that, something friendly. Then he left for Thailand for two weeks, and we haven’t spoken since. And that’s okay. Even though I sorely miss the best sex Ive had in D.C. (best. oral. ever.), I’m grateful to have met him, for our shared experience and, mostly, for our story.

It was a pretty good one, huh?

But now I have to buy a new umbrella. Dammit. 

If you wanna be my lover, you gotta go down on me…

Didn’t your mom ever tell you no dessert before dinner? Go back and eat your vegetables!

My hands, they were tingling. Not like the tiny needles that shoot through them when they wake up from a good sleep, but tingling all over, like tiny warning bells that at any moment, they would go numb. My breath was shallow, my heart racing like it needed to beat a record. My body, my entire body, was sweaty and pulsing, and a heat, a fire was spreading through it like conflagration in a dry wood.

My mind was absent – lost somewhere abstract, a blank place where thoughts ceased to exist. All there was, all there had ever been, it seemed, was sensation.

I forced myself back to consciousness, back to my room – lit only by the glint of streetlight that peaked through the ruffled curtains over my window.

“This is medically unsound,” I thought, as I gently moved my fingers and toes, confirming I did, in fact, still have feeling in them.

Then another wave of sensation ran through me, and I succumbed again to the blank space where all that existed was pleasure.

The Real T and I had vacillated between emailing and texting in the days after our date at El Centro. I had a vague notion that he seemed disappointed I hadn’t invited him inside. I also had the vague notion that this thing between us may not be an epic, made-for-movies love affair. I didn’t mind. It was what it was, and as our email thread filled with youtube videos and laughter, and our flirtation directly correlated with number of spirits ingested, I leaned back into it, relaxed into it, and enjoyed it.

“What are you doing?” he drunk texted me one night. “I want to see you.” 

“I’m already in bed…naked. Sorry. ” 

“That’s just a tease! I’m not that far away. Sounds like I should join you.”

“Only if you bring cheesecake.”

“Cheesecake? I can bring cheesecake.”

I fell asleep laughing, and awoke to his early morning text. “I tried to seduce you with cheesecake delivery. I’m so sorry.”

On Friday, when my solocation to Florida was canceled because of the weather, I found myself less than broken-hearted. We met around 10:30 and made our way to one of Red Palace’s cozy booths. We chatted casually about simple subjects. As our hands increasingly brushed and our eyes locked for increasing amounts of time, it became evident we were more interested in our chemistry than the alchemy of our cocktails.

We walked out of the bar and into my bedroom, his hand in mine. We sat on my bed.

“So, your house is cool.”

“Yeah…”

And before I could finish the thought, we went at each other with all the force of a head on collision. As our noses bumped and teeth clanked together, we fell apart laughing. He kissed me again, and that time, we got it right.

For the first several minutes, we kissed without a sound between us. That makes me uncomfortable. I like natural banter, I like laughter during sex. Silent sex is creepy, unless your fears of intimacy aren’t nearly as profound as mine. But whatever.

Finally, he broke it and said something silly, something I can’t remember, and I burst into laughter. And that was it, all the ice that needed to be broken. Our clothes came off as easily and quickly as the quips did off our tongues. We teased and played, verbally and physically. And then he got down to business.

Rather, went down on my business.

I’m not shy about my love of oral sex. I’m even less shy about my requirement that men I date be willing and eager to make sure sex isn’t just about them. The Real T took all my expectations, hopes and dreams for man-given-orgasms and raised the bar so high I might as well invest in a better vibrator and be damn happy with it, because ain’t no man ever gonna attain the standard he set.

Which brings me back to that sensation coma – that debilitating state of utter, overpowering pleasure.

“What do you like?” he asked with a mischievous smile, on his way up for air.

“That,” I nodded frantically. “That, a lot that.”

“Good, because I like doing it,” he grinned. “What else do you like?”

With my brain out of commission, I couldn’t force composure, and I blushed.

“Sounds like I’ll have to explore until I figure it out,” he said, and I died.

Because clearly this was a dream, a fantastical dream. This man and I had been fooling around for two hours, still hadn’t had intercourse and though I was already in some sort of primal, subconscious state of pure, unadulterated pleasure, he was still focused on me.

Eventually, when I regained motor control, I asked him the same, went on an expedition of my own and experienced a whole new level of pleasure listening to his body language for my answers.

It was nearly 4:00am by the time we had intercourse. Three hours of foreplay and several orgasms, it turns out, leads to damn good sex. We fell asleep at 5:00, exhausted and bodies entangled, woke up before 8:00 with our lips already on each other’s and put on an Oscar worthy encore performance.

By the time he stumbled out of my house, both of us exhausted and deliriously happy, I didn’t attempt to process what had happened or what would happen next. I lay in bed curled on my side, smelled him on my pillow, and immediately the sensations of the last 12 hours washed over me all over again.

I woke up at 2:00 that afternoon ready for more…

Sex over easy

Power and gender dynamics and societal norms and the intersection of feminism and sexuality and game and sluts and hos and players and pimps and assholes and rules and insecurities and body issues and confidence and masculinity and orgasms and equality and reciprocity and and and and

I think of sex, and it’s loaded with so many words and feelings and associations and sensations that I might as well be arguing Judith Butler again in that sex in film class I took that one time at Stellenbosch University, in which I was the prudent student and the puritan American. They argued it deftly before leaving class to fuck while I went to sit on that bench beside my favorite overhanging tree and read more. “Everyone’s always fucking while I’m thinking about Judith Butler’s ideas of fucking.”

Stop. Just stop.

Next time I’m horny, I’m picking up my phone and texting an offer nudity and naught with blind inhibition.

Feminist gone rogue.