Thursday, 30 March 2017

If these walls could talk (Sex)

Let me start by saying that if you didn't get the Kendrick reference in the title to this blog post, then you shouldn't be here.

And yes, another sex blog. Leave now if you're not ready for this.

I was chatting to one of my besties the other day about what we would want from a sexual partner if we had full control over what we could choose. What is necessary, what is basic, and what is, frankly, just asking for too much.

Talking to her is always fun, because she has a plethora of wisdom in this field from her acute attention paying way of being in the world.

In any case, we basically came up with lists, of what we think are the most important sexual skills that a (cis) man (or any partner) can offer a woman in a relationship.

Okay so full disclosure: when we started out, I had it as a priority that a beautiful dick is what I want and I will settle for nothing less.  I know a lot of people don't feel this way, but really you get penises, and you get penises. And the latter are like a work of art. If you're tactilely sensitive, they feel good in your hands. If you're care about hygiene, they feel so good in your mouth that you will forget that you do. Upshot is, they're things to behold. She thinks it's shallow. Besides, getting to know what someone's dick looks like is a little like a box of chocolates...

So we chatted. And fine, a beautiful penis - not too large, a little on the wide side... I digress - is too much to ask for, especially since it is an endowment that people have no choice over.

So i rolled my eyes and we carried on chatting. And this is what it turns out is not too much to ask for in a sexual relationship:

1- A man (or partner) who loves to eat pussy. With the operative word being love. And you would be surprised at how rare this is. Like I don't know what porn vacuum cis-het men live in, but they don't realise that eating pussy is an integral part of the sexual experience for women. In a world where women take 20 minutes just to let their defenses down and get turned on, eating pussy is not a luxury. It's a necessity. Why do you think gay and bi- women have a almost 100% orgasm strike rate? I mean, you get reasonable men who intellectually understand that they can't expect you to suck them off without them doing the same, but they're doing it as if they're washing the fucking dishes. Like, hold up. Keep your tongue to yourself if that's what you're gonna do with it.  But hey, on the bright side, once you get the hang of it it will only get easier and better.

Take some tips from your homeboy Ryan Gosling -
Here he is eating Carey Muligan out in Blue Valentine

2- CLITERACY! I will say no more... Just read this.

3- And intricately linked to cliteracy is technique.  Okay, so you get men in their thirties who still fuck like teenagers and this is NOT okay. Like, I get it, some men have natural rhythm and others don't, and that's okay because there are positions that work depending what your skills set it. For instance, if you don't have the hip moves, stay away from being on top (missionary) and if you still insist on being on top, maybe try a waltz move (every second beat of the bar should be more intense - you're welcome), but try to do it from the side, or maybe behind (yes, with the waltz - you are not a jackhammer). Also, the last works well if you - let's not sugarcoat it - have a small dick. And if you have a big one, then see point 1 above - it's all about the warm-up.

Gosh, I could gush about technique forever, but from a sample of ample women, I can tell you that guys who do kachabali have the most satisfied sexual partners. It's not always about penetration, sometimes you just have to appreciate the architecture of a good pussy and play with it a little, it's actually about the anticipation of good dick that can have the effect of good dick. I'm not gonna say anymore but watch this and skip to 3:34 to see what you need to do.  Also, God damn the Kenyans, they had it right this whole fucking time. Also bonus points if you can make her squirt. What? You didn't know that all women could squirt?

4- Compromise in terms of who does the work - this is an obvious point, but in a long term relationship it is only fair to divide the effort. It doesn't have to be equal division but division is necessary. I suppose there are dynamics that come into play here, like if you're not adequately turned on as a woman it can be sore to do the work.... I guess it comes back to having that pussy eaten. haha.

5-  Attentiveness and attention to detail: This is where the real work comes in, in my opinion, and women who have lovers who are great in the attention department are the ones who win. It's about knowing your partner's body, and idiosyncrasies so that you can hotwire them. Basically, you can fuck like a professional porn-star (when off the goose - Boom! Kendrick reference) but it doesn't matter if you don't know what your partner wants, or likes, or most importantly prefers.

Some girls like some mild choking while fucking. 
Ain't nothing wrong with dat.

6 - Most importantly, and related to 5, be chilled and humble (Queue Kendrick - be humble).  Like minimise your ego, learn how to take direction. Especially about those subtle things that go a long way to making sex amazing (e.g.: pulling a handful of hair at the nape of the neck for some women). Taking direction in a humble non-personal way is something that comes up in heteronormative sexual relationships all the time, because men tend to feel invalidated by their inability to locate the clit. And you end up having these conversations that go like this:

Her: "To the left, no to the right, no to the left, ah you lost it"
Him: "I'm trying, maybe if you stopped being so BOSSY it would work"....

Like ... hold up, I'm not being bossy, this is my body, i'm not gonna take something and pretend it feels good to protect your ego. Try again, and maybe this time be less defensive.

7- And after all of this if you still can't locate the clit, and fuck right, actually even if you can - invest in some fucking sex toys. They make everyone's life better.

Aight so this turned into a lecture for cis-het males on how to be good lovers. Well lawd knows they fucking need it....

As kendrick would say:
Enjoy it when you're in it. She'll love it when you're in it.


Wednesday, 29 March 2017

Guilty as fuck? Crushes when you're in a long term relationship

So, this is not taboo at all. *cough cough*

At the risk of outing the person whose message I'm relaying (consent was obtained) I decided it was time someone spoke about what you do if you develop the feels for someone else while you're in a relationship. See I have this friend, she works in corporate and she has the hots for a barista who works in the building.... and she's freaking out about it.

I mean I get it... Crushes have this way of coming to you out of the blue. Life's good, your relationship is good, the sex with your partner is great and one day you're fucking and boom, the barista from the coffee shop's cute little face pop's into your head.

Creepy shit. It's bound to freak you out. You write it off as a once off thing - you were hormonal (maybe getting your period if you're a cis woman) and it happens. But then you go buy a coffee and your heart skips a beat, or you get butterflies when he's there and you look at his pretty hands or piercing eyes.... A couple of days later you go to get a coffee again, he's not there and your heart sinks. All the while life back at the ranch with your partner is great. There are no sinister undercurrents, and things are going fine...

One or two weeks pass and when you find yourself with idle time this beautiful barista's face pops into your head. It's getting annoying now... Like being in high-school all over again. You secretly fantasize about what your kids would look like, or what the barista looks like naked.... Your tummy turns, and you feel excited. That oxytocin is a killer. Maybe you think about him when you masturbate, or wonder if he thinks about you while he masturbates. You probably have a good (really quick) orgasm, then you feel...

Guilty as fuck. 

You think about your partner, what you built and where you are and feel pretty fucking awful and a little angry at your body for betraying you by giving you the feels for someone else.

Issa could have avoided fucking up what she had
with Lawrence if she just rubbed it out.

But... A crush - even an outrageous tummy-turning, sex-dream inducing, head spinning, stuttering crush - is natural, and normal, and this is why:

1. We are, at the best of times, animals. Just because we choose to rise above our base instincts and pledge monogamy to one person does not mean that we become asexual or out of tune with the world around us.  Any time after about two years in a relationship the hormones wear off and it is normal that your interest is piqued subsconsciously around a person who evolutionarily would make a good mate.

2. Attention is nice. We all long to be desired, and wanted, and part of this is validating ourselves by wanting the attention of someone whom we can't actually have.  The whole forbidden fruit thing is legitimate.

3. You gotta learn to trust yourself. Just because you have sexual thoughts about someone does not mean that you are going to act on them. Society teaches us to be ashamed of these kinds of feelings, even though they are involuntary and to a certain extent random  (there is nothing special about the barista at the coffee shop no matter how much your infatuated mind tells you there is, you could have a crush on anyone). However, because of this shame having a crush fucks with your mind because you keep the fear of infidelity alive. But you have to learn to trust yourself, a few benign feelings does not have to mean the end of any number of years you spent building something with someone you love. Your self-trust will trump the transience of these feelings.

So a crush is normal, what do you do about it then?

The answer is simple: nothing. 

You certainly do NOT tell your partner about it - it will hurt their feelings unnecessarily and create drama over nothing.

In my opinion I don't believe in fighting the crush to make it go away - harmless flirting and light entertaining of it doesn't equate to infedility to me. You can enjoy someone's conversation, be sexually attracted to them, and safely not act on the latter. It isn't a slippery slope, and is something that can be nipped in the bud. Besides, while these thing work two ways - you have complete agency.

Finally, just sit with the feelings and don't over-analyse them. They probably don't mean anything deep, and they will pass.

This is really simple advice, but I can see how in a culture of paranoia and mistrust in hetero-normative patriarchal relationships people view something as natural as having a crush in a relationship as something that must be hush-hushed. And this where the guilt stems from. I guess it depends on what your objective is - if your objective is to put your partner's feelings before your own at any cost then hush-hushing it may work for you. If your objective is to live a healthy balanced life, and one in which you may encounter numerous situations like this, then honest acknowledgment of where you are and mild entertaining of it can be truly harmless. Ultimately however, the risk comes from people not being self-aware enough to truly believe that their actions are harmless. In this situation it is not the crush that is the enemy but LYING TO YOURSELF - about your motives, agenda and your feelings.

Predicated on a healthy sense of self-awareness, trust and a palate for a little spice. A crush is healthy. Enjoy it while it lasts.

Saturday, 25 March 2017

Imagine the Angels of Bread

This is the year that squatters evict landlords,
gazing like admirals from the rail
of the roof deck
or levitating hands in praise
of steam in the shower;
this is the year
that shawled refugees deport judges
who stare at the floor
and their swollen feet
as files are stamped
with their destination;
this is the year that police revolvers,
stove-hot, blister the fingers
of raging cops,
and nightsticks splinter
in their palms;
this is the year that dark skinned men
lynched a century ago
return to sip coffee quietly
with the apologizing descendants
of their executioners.

This is the year that those

who swim the border's undertow
and shiver in boxcars
are greeted with trumpets and drums
at the first railroad crossing
on the other side;
this is the year that the hands
pulling tomatoes from the vine
uproot the deed to the earth that sprouts
the vine,
the hands canning tomatoes
are named in the will
that owns the bedlam of the cannery;
this is the year that the eyes stinging from the poison that purifies toilets
awaken at last to the sight
of a rooster-loud hillside,
pilgrimage of immigrant birth; this is the year that cockroaches
become extinct, that no doctor
finds a roach embedded
in the ear of an infant;
this is the year that the food stamps
of adolescent mothers
are auctioned like gold doubloons,
and no coin is given to buy machetes
for the next bouquet of severed heads
in coffee plantation country.
If the abolition of slave-manacles
began as a vision of hands without manacles,then this is the year;
if the shutdown of extermination camps
began as imagination of a land
without barbed wire or the crematorum,
then this is the year;
if every rebellion begins with the idea
that conquerors on horseback are not many-legged gods, that they too drown
if plunged in the river,
then this is the year.
So may every humiliated mouth,
teeth like desecrated headstones,
fill with the angels of bread.
 Martín Espada

A Small Needful Fact

Is that Eric Garner worked
for some time for the Parks and Rec.
Horticultural Department, which means,
perhaps, that with his very large hands,
perhaps, in all likelihood,
he put gently into the earth
some plants which, most likely,
some of them, in all likelihood,
continue to grow, continue
to do what such plants do, like house
and feed small and necessary creatures,
like being pleasant to touch and smell,
like converting sunlight
into food, like making it easier
for us to breathe.

--Ross Gay

Beverly Hills, Chicago

The dry brown coughing beneath their feet,
(Only a while, for the handyman is on his way)
These people walk their golden gardens.
We say ourselves fortunate to be driving by today.

That we may look at them, in their gardens where
The summer ripeness rots. But not raggedly.
Even the leaves fall down in lovelier patterns here.
And the refuse, the refuse is a neat brilliancy.

When they flow sweetly into their houses
With softness and slowness touched by that everlasting gold,
We know what they go to. To tea. But that does not mean
They will throw some little black dots into some water and add sugar and the juice of the
     cheapest lemons that are sold,

While downstairs that woman's vague phonograph bleats, "Knock me a kiss."
And the living all to be made again in the sweatingest physical manner
Tomorrow....Not that anybody is saying that these people have no trouble.
Merely that it is trouble with a gold-flecked beautiful banner.

Nobody is saying that these people do not ultimately cease to be. And
Sometimes their passings are even more painful than ours.
It is just that so often they live till their hair is white.
They make excellent corpses, among the expensive flowers....

Nobody is furious. Nobody hates these people.
At least, nobody driving by in this car.
It is only natural, however, that it should occur to us
How much more fortunate they are than we are.

It is only natural that we should look and look
At their wood and brick and stone
And think, while a breath of pine blows,
How different these are from our own.

We do not want them to have less.
But it is only natural that we should think we have not enough.
We drive on, we drive on.
When we speak to each other our voices are a little gruff.

-- Gwendolyn Brooks


Friends, mine are ugly feet:
the body’s common wreckage
stuffed into boots.  The second toe
on the left foot’s crooked
enough that when a child
asks, “what’s that?” of it,
(the left more haywire than the right)
I can without flinch or fear of doubt lie
that a cow stepped on it
which maybe makes them fear cows
for which I repent in love
as I am with those philosophical beasts
who would never smash my feet
nor sneer at them
the way my mother does:
“We always bought you good shoes, honey,”
she says, “You can’t blame us
for those things,” and for this
and other reasons
I have never indulged in the pleasure
of flip-flops shy or ashamed
digging my toes like ten tiny ostriches into the sand
at the beach with friends
who I’m not sure love me
though I don’t think Tina loved me—
she liked me, I think—but said
to me, as we sat on lawn chairs
beside a pool where I lifeguarded and was meticulous
at obscuring from view with a book or towel
my screwy friends,
You have pretty feet,
in that gaudy, cement–mixer, Levittown accent
that sends all the lemurs scaling my ribcage to see
and she actually had pretty feet
and so I took this as a kindness incomparable and probably
fell a little bit in love with her for that afternoon
with the weird white streak in her hair
and her machinegun chatter and probably her gum snapping
and so slid my feet from beneath my Powerman and Iron Fist comic book
into the sun for which they acted like plants opening their tiny mouths
to the food hurtling to them through the solar system
and like plants you could watch them almost smile,
almost say thank you, you could watch them
turn colors, and be, almost, emboldened,
as much as some snaggletoothed feet can be emboldened,
and Tina witnessed none of this
because she was probably digging in her purse
or talking about that hottie on The Real World
or yelling at some friend’s little sister to put her ass in her trunks
or pouring the crumbs of her Fritos into her thrown open mouth,
but do you really think I’m talking to you about my fucking feet?
Of course she’s dead: Tina was her name, of leukemia: so I heard—
why else would I try sadly to make music of her unremarkable kindness?
I am trying, I think, to forgive myself
for something I don’t know what.
But what I do know is that I love the moment when the poet says
I am trying to do this
or I am trying to do that.
Sometimes it’s a horseshit trick. But sometimes
it’s a way by which the poet says
I wish I could tell you,
truly, of the little factory
in my head: the smokestacks
chuffing, the dandelions
and purslane and willows of sweet clover
prying through the blacktop.
I wish I could tell you
how inside is the steady mumble and clank of machines.
But mostly I wish I could tell you of the footsteps I hear,
more than I can ever count,
all of whose gaits I can discern by listening, closely.
Which promptly disappear
after being lodged again,
here, where we started, in the factory
where loss makes all things
beautiful grow.
-- Ross Gay

Rhonda, age 15 emergency room

...Yeah, I been to juvee, what about it?
I was up at Spofford --they got legends
bout me--thought they wasn't gon git
rid a' me, but yo' I had to git de fuck up
outta dere, they had hoes that murder
people in that piece
I'm baaad and all but I ain't never
murdered nobody yet and I try not
to fuck up nobody too much less
they mama cain't recognize 'em
Last night, my man Ray-Ray, he 23
and built better than buster douglass
well anyway, we was over to his
crib and he was tryin to git on
for some
but he been locked up for 4 months
and I 'ont know that that nigga
been doin--shit, I know what
I was doin up in Spofford

so when I tole him I was having my
menstruals, he decided to get plexed.
He smoked a blunt and wouldn't
take me home and den the nigga
went n' fell asleep.
I was like damn, here I am
at Ray-Ray's crib and I got
a motherfuckin curfew and a
math test tomorrow (I'm trying
to do good in school for probation
and dis lady who teach english
say I got potential --which I did
look up in the dictionary. It mean
I gots mad promise if my ass don't
end up in jail).
So I'm lookin for a pencil,
anything to write on which,
when I find it, is a paper towel
and thinkin that Ray-Ray ain't
helpin me none and he must
be a stupid nigga to boot cuz
he ain't got no paper and I
had to sharpen the pencil
wit a knife. I starts to think
about findin me a new man.
Me and my math problems
plexing each other to death,
when Big Mac come knockin.
He Ray-Ray's cousin
so I let him in. He say,
     where Ray-Ray? I'm like he sleeping, he blunted out-
     Ahhe say,you wanna watch a movie
I look at the napkin, crunch it
up, make a perfect 3 pointer and
follow Big Mac to the living room.
He put in the tape and turn off the
light. Then the movie come on
and at first I'm fixin to git up cuz
this ain't my kind of movie --girls
in all kinds of crazy positions suckin
white boys off, bitches lettin 'em
whip they ass and tie em up. That's
at first, cuz the next thing I know
I'm feelin crazy shit go through me:
     cunt juice drippin down
     my leg and I'm freakin
     myself out cuz i thought
     that shit only happen at
     Spofford. Cuz I'm imagi-
     nin I'm stompin all the
     white boys. Walkin up to
     em while dey whippin dem
     girls and I'm stickin .45s in
     dey backs---but that ain't all.
     I'm thinkin after I kill em,
     de ladies gon want to fuck
     me, and yeah, that's the part
     I'm trippin on, that I want them
     to fuck me and that Ray-Ray
     didn't never make me feel like
     the cuties in juvee.
And I look over at Big Mac to see
if he know yet by the look on my face that
I'm a fuckin homo. Cuz if he don't know yet
I want to fix my face before he guess.
And when I look at him I'm like
I know this nigga done lost his mind cuz
the bitch is sittin there with his dick
outta his pants and his hand movin all
fast n shit and he stop when he see me,
den he start talkin real deep bullshit
he say,
     Rhonda come here, Why don't you
     do me, Come on Rhonda do me,
     Ray-Ray ain't gonna mind, I ain't
     gonna tell him.
He reach over and
touch my titty and me, ms. bad ass
all of a sudden cain't move
I'm frozen, I mean I couldn't move
     damn you cute
     girl, I wanna git my groove
     on wit you, I always...

The nigga
stop talkin then.
He all grunts and shit and I'm
imaginin I'm on another planet
tryin to think about the math test
and that lady-teacher I got
and I feel all that POTENTIAL
running the fuck away
cuz I won't claw this nigga to death
cuz I cain't even believe it's happenin
cuz he Ray-Ray's cousin and
cuz i ain't never felt no pain like this
so I don't feel it/ I /think/ bout/ this/
time/I/beat/this/bitch/ so /bad /she /lost/
6/ teeth/ and/ got /scars /to /this /day/
from/the box/ cutter/ I /slashed /cross
I guess he done cuz he start to say
     don't worry girl, I know you.......
And I don't hear the mothafucka
finish cuz I'm outta the room and
shakin Ray-Ray so hard he think
it's a earthquake in Bed-Stuy.
I make
that nigga
git up
and take
me home
in his mama's
raggedy-ass hoopty.
And I start cryin
when I see my projects
and commence to tellin
Ray-Ray everything.
First thing he do is say,
     hell naw, you my bitch,
     ah'm a take care of
     this shit.

Den he tell me to take a bath
an he gon call me after he settle
this shit.
Then he leave.
I let myself in and hope mama ain't wake.
She ain't.
I go to de bathroom,
flick de light on,
watch de roaches git
de fuck out my way,
and set the water to run.
I wuz gonna take a real
hot bath, but I
membered too
late we ain't got
no hot water right now.
So, I pullt the drain
and went to bed.
But all I'm thinkin
bout is my test
and my potential---
how ahm gon git it back--
so I find the damn book
and jist study and study and study
till round bout 7:30 when
I'm still wide awake and
fixin to go to the school.
For the first time I'm gon
make first period.
I'm steppin out the door and I see
Ray-Ray walkin up,
he look real mad.
I don't feel nothin but
good cuz I know I can
pass. He git closer and I
smell malt on him. He say,
     I see you like them clothes, bitch
and I'member right
then I ain't changed
he say it again,
     yeah, you like the fuck smell on them clothes.
I go "you crazy nigga,
I ain't like shit about yo cousin"
he like,
     you lyin cunt, Big tole me de
     whole story, He say you wanted to fuck him,
     He say you come over to him while he
     tryin to watch a movie and put
     your hand on his dick and
     He say he told you he wasn't gon'
     disrespect me like that but you kept
     touchin on him and I
     cain't blame the nigga
     for goin for his. I cain't believe you
     did that shit, Rhonda. You spose to
     be my girl and you go fuckin my cousin.
He got me backed up in
the corner in the lobby. People
see us and don't nobody say shit.
I don't say shit again cuz ahm in
shock and de only think I'm thinkin
is bout how
to figure x=y2
when he say
     You ain't got nothin to say, bitch
the way to solve x=y2 was
still runnin through my mind
when he hit me and I fell down
and I felt him kickin math answers
out my head.
I got sad cuz I wasn't gon' make
first period and my POTENTIAL
act like it ain't never comin back
-- letta simone-nefertari neely, When we were mud