Suck my Cunt (proceeds donated to Feminism)

“Blondie Bitch.”
Some drunk guy called me late one night in a mutual friends kitchen.

Moving in closer, eyes wild in the reflection of my own, he said,
“Suck my cock, Blondie Beeeaatch!”
Placing a hand on my shoulder, pushing firmly, nodding towards his crotch.

“Suck my cunt first then.” I said,
raising an eyebrow, almost bored, without missing a beat.

“YOU’RAAAaaaaaa CUNT!” he spat,
and I stood:
still, smirking, staring him square in the face.

Eyeing me up and down, he grit his teeth, he bit his lips,
“Will you suck my cock Puuuuuhleeeeeze!?”
His words like grunts, forced through cigarette breath.

If nothing else, I knew, he was way too wasted to get hard anyway;
making his request really kind of funny,
laughable, cute, emasculating.

“Hmm, not today.” I shrugged,
twirling my long blond hair, taking another swig of my whisky mixed drink.
“Can’t say I wont ever, but not today.”

Our friend, effeminate in a silk floral robe,
was bent in half laughing, cackling at this, he loves a show.

“Tomorrow then?”
“Will you suck my cunt tomorrow?”
“Well, I don’t know now do I…” he snarled.
“Right, so, if we see each other tomorrow, we can discuss it.”

“He really respects you.”
the friend said later, earnest.
I laughed at this too.

I know that sometimes, to some people, in some states,
I’m nothing but a mouth and a cunt, hair and lips and legs;
and to them I say, suck it.

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Sudden Summer Storms.

A man says in a Spanish accent that he’s closing the window beside me and I say,
“It’s going to rain?”
Disbelieving, liking the air untill yes it’s pouring.

Sitting under a coat rack in the corner, our legs intertwined.

His best friends girlfriend keeps calling me his girlfriend,
loudly and giggling.

“Not girlfriend!” I say from under the coat rack.

He’s sticking his hands in through the rips in my jeans,
we are high on MDMA.

A black capsule split in the bathroom,
he wrapped it in toilet paper.

I made a face,
asking does this actually work?

But,
I swallowed it anyway since he’s been doing drugs for like as long as I’ve been alive.

“Would you like a bump?” Asked another,
the kind of aquaintance I haven’t known how to bond with previously and I hesitated,
“Oh…,” he said, “I dunno, I’m just trying to be nice.”

So I did two off my triangle tattoo because why not and this is how to make friends.

Then I met a guy who looks like Nickelback and we did a bump together too.
Then he stalked me all night like a fucking softcore Canadian nightmare.

Standing way too close, staring, following.
As if I owe him sex for a sniff of Coke.
Haunted by his terrible haircut,
lurking in the shadows of the shadow loft.

So I crawl under the coat rack,
digging in my bag for my soggy gum.

I need three pieces to save the skin inside my cheeks.

And we watch as he lurks at the bar,
watching us be watched.

His best friends girlfriend keeps slipping us free vodka drinks.
We watch super models hullucinate and I rant about friendships.

Beside the bar,
under the coat rack,
he says, “Not girlfirend!”

His eyes coaxing and scanning my face like the first time,
when he was the stalk-y one.

“She’s just teasing us.
You do whatever you want,
I’m just happy to spend time with you.”

And I smiled the smile I feel for being so happy to hear men say that.

And the spanish man with a cigerette in his mouth and a coffee in his hand,
slides back open my cafe window.
Even though it’s still raining,
the wind has softened and the storm has passed.
We exchange smiles and I say, “Thanks.”

Language Barriers.

Watching his laptop screen from beneath a fuzzy tiger printed blanket in the dark, I waited for the words he typed to translate properly under the box labled “english”.

“I like you and I want to know you more.”

The box told me, and I nodded a thank you. I had understood his words the first 17 times he’d said them aloud in french, but perhaps because my reaction was not what he wanted he thought that I hadn’t.

Although, I was quite struck by their simplicity when translated in a basic terms, thinking that most relationships would probably be easier if we all used similar translation tools, especially for those of us that pretend to speak the same language.

Maybe there’s a movement. Or maybe we should start one.

Maybe, what we all (the young, us, ‘young adults’ especially it seems) have to remember (constantly, everyday, around every corner and conversation and expectation) is that no body really knows what they’re doing.

Maybe we are all anxious, and OCD, and self conscious.

Maybe we’re all floundering for some kind of sensibility in the chaos that is our perception of the world and each other and everything. Each of us and our thoughts and the words that come out right and wrong and sideways and poetically, they all get tangled like a fly in the web of a very tricky spider called life. And we’re trapped here, stuck somewhere between can’t escape the hold and loving this sweet venum.

Maybe we both wish for happiness, and pretend we know how to find it (or keep it, or stay happy in one place for very long).

Maybe we want to be travellers, lovers, artists and bohemians because to us that means we’re finding our own way with a little bit more joie de vie than the average american teen and,

and and and, we want to beleive that something somewhere, well anything actually, will ever really make us happy at all.

And in the search of this idea, this utopia far away behind (what we’re told will be) a stable income and true (ever lasting, in Christ our lord amen) love, our lives are filled with so much beauty, so much laughter, and care, and chaos, and coincedences that we will never be able to hold it all. Never tell, or write, or take enough photographs to capture the true (cheesy quote worthy) happiness that comes in the everyday crazy; somewhere between sneezing with your mouthfull and that snarky glisten in your best friends eye.

And they, the opressers and the pessimists and the scientists, they say, that our brains aren’t done developing, and that our horemones drive our actions and that one day, when we’re 32, our motabolizims will have stabalized and then we can go on to live our “real” lives. And maybe they’re right, (or just for some; the boring, sensible, lazy, brainwashed, scared and ‘faux’ depressed) or maybe there’s a movement towards appreciating the unstable, unpredicatble nature of our brains and trusting what all those funny biological chemicals are telling us in the form of libidos and emotions and personal tastes.

Maybe there’s a movement towards appreciating the messy, and the scary (taking chances on people and places and dreams) and the not so simple complexities and intimacies in a whole spectrum of relationships.

Maybe there’s a movement towards realizing that we can cultivate lives worth sustaining. Making homes into recording studios and hosting the parties we’d like to go to in our own backyards.

Maybe, there’s a movement towards appreciating community;
to appreciate living in a world filled with people just as fucked up and depressed and confused as you are (probably, and if you’re not, get out of my house) and to realizing that often, people with the biggest hearts, with the most incredible minds and coolest portfolios have been around the self doubting, depressed for days, haunt at least a few times and that some are probably on it right now.

Maybe there’s a movement towards realizing that there’s no happily ever finish line decorated with suburban home floor plans and wedding bands dripping in white white (pure) white and comfortable retirement funds.

Maybe we’re on a parasol in a web of uncertainty and maybe there’s a movement towards accepting that that’s okay (and that ‘true happiness’ makes a better post it note quote than a life goal) (and that happiness is best homemade, self made, and probably different for everybody, and found in as many different ways as there are people).

Maybe there’s a  movement. Or maybe we should start one.

Required (preferred) Readings.

Especially interesting exerts from ‘Am I Normal? The Questions of Sex’
– which I just read for my ‘Intro to Sexuality Research’ class…

Required (preferred) Readings. | This is (not) Romance..

Before you remember how to be yourself and so instead are so much more.

I love when you meet for brunch and you haven’t been home yet.

I love that messy space between happiness and comfort.
That messy space before you’d had time to collect yoursel, to process your actions and experiences and all of the new people in your life as of last night.
Space before you’ve had the time or energy to put on good face, to remember who you’re supposed to be and what your insecurities are, when your groggy, hungover, giddy and greasy. Before you remember how to be yourself and so instead are so much more.

The possibilities streatch and expand you, the laughter tumbles like a nervous boy stutters when talking to a beautiful girl and connections are made deep, below the surface of expectations and reputations. You are weaker in manyways but vulnerability is a wise monster, and vulnerability is the key to making real friends, and vulnerability is essential to growth and change and discovery.

A run on rant about meeting boys at bars, taking chances and one night stands. | This is (not) Romance.

He seemed lovely and we had a lot of fun dancing and he’s a photo-journalist who’ll be interning at Vice. So these are all excellent qualities, and we smoked cigarettes outside and he was friends with everybody and… continued here.