11 6 / 2014
22 5 / 2014
18 1 / 2014
Sex is not a goddamn performance.
Sex should feel as natural as drinking water.
It should not require confidence.
Sex should happen, because the moment is ripe.
Ripening lips, ripening labia, ripening cock, ripening pupils, ripening state of being. Ripe and augmented and brimming. Your energy goes to your pumping heart, then to every external nerve, then to theirs, on fire.
You bask, roll, play in it. You sigh, moan, laugh.
It’s not about being “good in bed.”
It’s about being happy.
One should never worry if they’re doing it “correctly.” Sex is not factual. I don’t want your cookie-cutter sex, I don’t want your meticulously crafted, calculated, fool-proof fuck. I don’t want a show. I want you. Let your instincts, urges and whims define that. It’s enough.
What do most girls like? Forget about it. Statistics are meaningless when there’s only one. Hello, here’s me. Here’s you.
Don’t worry about taking it too slow. We got time. We got infinite rhythms, combinations, possibilities. Explore each fuck. Take our time. We can do a different one later.
Don’t worry about making me come. I’m here. Right where I want to be.
I am overwhelmed by wanting; you don’t have to convince me. I want you because I like you. So don’t put on a front. Don’t taint this.
I’m frustrated—it’s just authenticity I want.
Don’t say that something I like is ugly. Don’t compare yourself to the rest. You will live and die with and within your experiences like everyone else. If someone thinks you are amazing, they are not wrong. Their universe is as real as any other; it is forged through perception.
I don’t care if you accidentally slammed my head into the wall, if you slipped out, if my arm cracked, if the delightful pressure of your wet lips on my anything made a silly sound. There is no right way and no wrong way.
“Good in bed,” what.
You’re good in my bed. I’m pleased you’re there. I feel it suits you.
Shove your technique. Let your memory swallow it. Fuck me like you’d fuck me, fuck me like you feel.
This isn’t a test."
29 8 / 2013
A few days ago, I went to go get coffee after work with a coworker. I hadn’t had coffee in a while—try: a little over a year—but didn’t think too much of it. I felt alright up until it was time for bed. And that’s when my brain exploded. It just exploded.
I was so wired I learned two new songs on my ukelele, started three paintings, and beat fourteen levels of Candy Crush. At this point, it was almost 4AM, but I still couldn’t get my shit together. So I crawled into bed with a physics book. (Actually, I don’t know why I had a high school physics book lying around on the floor…)
For those of you who know me, you know I am not a math-y, science-y person. But as I was reading about the physics of rainbows, something dawned on me: I am a lover of puzzles and have been since age 3, and math is just another puzzle. I had determined that I was no good at science and math because somewhere along the way, I had failed and given up on myself. I had let an arbitrary letter in red define and limit my potential.
So maybe I am a math-y, science-y, artsy fartsy person, and I’ve just been lying to myself, limiting myself to the media of art, music and literature.
At the core of my being, I am in love with learning. It’s an affirmation refined over twenty-two years. My greatest frustration is that there is not enough time to read every book, experience every culture, and hear every life story. But until the day I return to the soil, I will not let my failures determine my potential.
And so I begin with Geometry, and I refuse to let these triangles get the better of me.