Sex clubs have the potential to be super fun, chill, relaxed lil’ spots where you can disrobe and discharge as you please. They can be a fun place to go if you’re just so damn sick of wearing clothes all the time. Also, titties. And some crap about normalizing and de-sexualizing the human body.
Actually, I subscribe to said crap — it’s pretty cool. But it would be even cooler if most of the dudes that show up to these places held the same attitude.
Indeed, there are a few reasons that I’m reluctant to revisit my old squirting grounds…
Who needs porn when you get off on self-loathing?
Every night before bed, I settle under the covers and shiftily pull up YouTube.
What shall it be tonight?
These days, I want to feel degraded on an existential level. I may be a desperate little slut, but for so many more things than just human touch. I’m a slut for recognition, praise, esteem (self- and otherwise). For job interviews, a chance to look smart, and really any kind of label I can rattle off at a party without immediately needing a shot. A true millennial, I’m full of baseless narcissism…
Snap a photo as I bow!
Lest you miss me here and now;
You tell me you’ll remember — how?
Tempted now by likes, I dream
That our love could be a meme.
For if friends just laugh away
Hours of a fun-filled day,
Sharing smiles, yet selfies none
Is the day as good as gone?
All that we see or seem
Is but a meme within a meme.
I screenshot as a chore;
I must track my social score!
Thus I hold within my hand
Proof that friendship can be scanned. …
After high school, I did the logical thing and promptly took up stripping. Friends and family were supportive, but have frequently cautioned me that burnout is high in this profession. Also, I simply might not have the skills to make it really really big, as I of course plan to. So without further ado, here is a list of backup plans I have compiled to set their concerned minds at ease.
I know it’s stigmatized. I know no one really respects “degrees” these days, least of all those tied to a “university”. Like honestly, learn a practical skill! I, of…
I don’t understand. English is just how humans talk. Like, there’s no way to say things without it. If there were “other languages” this whole time, why didn’t anyone tell me?
Sure, I took French in school, but I thought that was just some weird excuse to give teachers a free prep period while we all chanted verbs in a monotone along with a tape. Oh, and to pretend that we were “cultured” or something. I certainly enjoyed eating fondue that one time. And it was fun making strange costumes for presentations.
To me, French was just this ominous, vaguely…
My boyfriend took me aside the other day. He nervously brought his guitar down from the wall and started to strum.
“I’ve got a blank space, baby,” he sang, gazing earnestly into my eyes. “And I’d like to write your name, but sometimes I’m concerned you’re a raging narcissist and I’d be making a huge mistake.” Somehow, he crammed all those words into a single line and it still sounded beautiful. I’d never admit this to him, but he’s actually a very talented musician.
This was two years ago, and I’m still a little bit salty, to be honest. But…
Let’s face it: I never had the milk-and-cookies grandma. That’s not what you were, and you never apologized for it.
I’d like to start this letter by telling you about your memorial service. I’m not sure if you remember this, but uncle Chip told quite the story about you. When he first started dating my aunt, your daughter Les, he brought you a box of chocolates as a courtesy. “I brought you chocolates, Ms. Smylie!” he told you, nodding his head out of respect.
Your response: “The name’s Wilma, and don’t bring me anything ever again.” …
Yeah, I was that person.
At the time, I thought it was charming. I also thought if anyone wasn’t chill with me constantly turning the conversation back to who they wanted to kiss, or how ashamed they were of their regular masturbation, or how much they’d secretly like to party at a nude beach… that was their problem, and they deserved to be publicly humiliated for their closed-mindedness.
And yet, I refused to talk about my own desires, assuming that desirousness affected others only. If I had them, I would be open about them, but there was no need for…
I’m growing up, and I don’t accept charity anymore.
The other day I had my parents over for avocado toast and microwave lava cakes, and they told me they thought I was ready to take an important step in the direction of adulthood. They explained to me that they were thinking of tapering off the money they send me every month, which, for your information, is in the hundreds, not thousands. At 24, I think it’s pretty impressive that I’m using the money they send me every month to rent my very own room in their basement. …
Where I live, there exists an unironically-titled Conscious Community of people who do, well, all the conscious things. It’s unclear whether a reiki practice, belief in astrology, and crystal collection of at least 10 elements are all requirements to get in, or whether one is enough. In any case, these people are in incredible denial about their need to make money. …