The greedy ass bee

This is a story of a bee. A desperate little insect who had not yet fulfilled his life’s purpose. Which is, as you can learn here, fucking the female worker bees. The only thing that male bees do is wait around to have sex. Then they get to die. Happy, but without their penises. Which is okay because I hear that in bee heaven, you are met with like 99 bee virgins and pa colmo the bee gods give you 99 shiny, new, erect penises (that never fall off) with which to fuck them. AND in bee heaven, the bee bitches don’t get pregnant.

This is a story of a bee.

Bee was the last one to hatch. He struggled with life. And so his big brothers made fun of him incessantly. Right after his older brothers had sex and just before they would die, they would ridicule him. “What?! You ain’t fucked yet!? You pussy ass lady bug!” “Fucking is the shiiiiiitt,” they would say as their wings stopped flapping and they spiraled erratically down to the ground, gripping the empty space where their penises used to stand proudly. Cough cough. Spittle spittle. Death death. Plop.

All of Bee’s brothers had died and he was still waiting. Waiting to give his all to that one lucky worker bee. “She’ll never know what’s coming to her,” he would say to himself. “Imma give it to her so good! Oh man!” he would say as he humped flowers, moths, old people, tree branches or anything else that stood still long enough for him to practice on.

Then one day, he saw her. She was beautiful. Huge. The biggest ass he’d ever seen. Calm. Not running around pollinating shit or fixing the hive or doing the eight million other things that worker bees do. She was chillin on the rug. Waiting to be taken by him.

Bee started to sweat.

“Ohmanohmanohmanohmanohman! This is it Bee,” he said to himself, slicking his hair back and practicing his thrusts. “This fine little thing, well big really, is gonna be the next QUEEN. My pretty little queen BEE! And she’s gonna have my babies! And, and, and fuck all my brothers who hated on me before!”

Bee took a deep breath and slowly approached his fine, young selection.

“Don’t fuck it up Don’t fuck it up Don’t fuck it up Don’t fuck it up Don’t fuck it up.”

As he buzzed down towards her, he had a liberating realization. This is the moment he’s been waiting for. This is what he was born for. Why be worried? If he was bad in the sack, he wouldn’t have been born to fuck. This was his calling and this female was calling him. It was perfect. He could feel it: starting in his abdomen, traveling up his thorax and tingling his antennae. It was right. So he stopped hesitating and descended rapidly on the worker bee in waiting, his penis engorged with expectation.

As he approached, he took in all of her bright yellowness and blackness. She was beautiful and bright. He smelled her: sweet as brown sugar. He got closer and he could feel her heat as it radiated from her body: steaming. And as he entered her (SEX!) he was so enveloped in emotion, he felt as if he were drowning. Her vagina so hot and smooth it seemed to melt the skin off his penis…

Wait. W. T. F???

"Melt the skin off my penis! Pa’l carajo!"

All it took was a moment (the moment in which he opened his eyes) to realize that something was terribly terribly off. Why is this female hard and shiny and not soft and furry. Why is she like…like liquid?

Why?!? Why?!? WHYYYYYYYYYYYYY?!?!? Blub blub blub. Gurgle gurgle gurgle. Death death death.

That’s what you get for trying to fuck my coffee cup you greedy ass bee:

His sweet, sweet love.

His bitter, bitter demise.

Que chille la chilla

I once was a chilla. My boss, older than me, more knowledgeable than me, married, a child at home. I told him I wanted to learn so he taught me. I was his apprentice. And nothing is as sexy as whispering, “ay jefe” in a man’s ear as he slips his hand inside your underwear.

It has to do with power.

Power over me: I, an adult, am making the conscious decision to fuck someone I know I should not. Someone who has the power to fire me as soon as I say no. Or as soon as She finds out.

Power over him: It’s amazing what a pretty smile and the confident offering up of some pussy can do to a man. He turns soft and when he’s hard he goes
right
inside
of me
And I take him and I make him forget things that should be impossible to forget. The child he made, the woman he goes home to make love to, his business, his employees. "Shh jefe, it’s okay," I ensure him, as if I’m the one writing the checks.

Temptation is powerful. I convinced myself that this was something I had to do. Everyday I saw this man, I wished for a way to find myself alone with him. I found myself brushing up against him as I passed to get to the storage room. For that split second of touch that would make my vagina so uncomfortably hot, make me so wet I couldn’t work because I just had to meet his eyes one more time.

Temptation makes you say:
To hell with his wife
She will never find out
I need to do this
Ay Dios, una vez na ma (even though you know STOP is not one of the words you will ever say to him)

Knowing something that others don’t know is powerful. When I met his wife—this was before we started having sex but after we began to flirt ceaselessly—I didn’t feel guilty or ashamed. In my head I kept saying, “can you tell that I’ve seen your husband’s cock? Can you tell that I am crazy to have it in my mouth?” When I saw him grip her waist and kiss her neck, I wanted to steal a moment with him in the bathroom to remind him of my lips and show him how they feel on his body. In other words, I felt jealous.

And this is the downfall of la chilla. La chilla has to live within the rules that are laid out by the man she is having an affair with. La chilla cannot call her lover in the middle of the night to talk to him about her bad dreams. The ones where the faces of devils grow out of her bedroom walls to stare at her, to laugh at her. La chilla cannot call her lover when she is horny because she cannot outwardly disturb the relationship her lover has with his family. La chilla must wait. She must be fiercely independent at all times. If one is meant to be a chilla then this is not a problem. I’m thinking now of Sabina in The Unbearable Lightness of Being. She is the mistress of two men, belongs to neither of them, and is content. She paints and never feels quite at home anywhere. Unsettled. So why settle with a man? That will simply serve to make you forget things you shouldn’t, namely that you are not at home and haven’t found a home yet.

There is something sexy about being the mistress of someone. The knowledge that you are satisfying a man in a way that his legitimate partner cannot. The secrecy. The fleeting intimacy. Knowing someone is giving you all he has for a couple of hours and that perhaps he is thinking about you and how you scream and how you arch your back in orgasm as he lays down with his wife.

Yet you know you are doing something undeniably fucked up. Not just to this woman with whom you have no beef at all but in general. You are supporting every man who leaves his wife to take care of his children while he fucks another woman. You are supporting that system of machismo that says women should wait: Las chillas esperan sus amantes mientras las esposas esperan un cambio que nunca vendrá. You are normalizing the destruction of marriages. But whatever. Maybe you don’t believe in marriage. I was never the girl who pictured herself in a white, wedding dress saying, “I do” to a faceless knight in shining in armor. As a child I just wanted to draw and be thin. There were no princes in my dreams.

But I’m not deluding myself into thinking that I was participating in something radical with my boss when we had an affair. We weren’t fighting against the injustice of marriage. We were fucking selfishly. I mean, we were fucking selfish.

It's been so long, jefe. But I still remember the thoughts that danced through my mind as I held your head in my arms. As you told me to behave myself(as you kissed my breasts)as you made me promise not to be trouble(as you bit my neck): what kind of father are you? What kind of lessons do you teach your son when you come home and place him on your lap, the scent of foreign sex underneath your guilty fingernails?

The Meaning of the Toothbrush

Fuck hearts. Fuck a box of chocolates and chubby, little cupids. Fuck the color red and it’s bastard offspring pink. Fuck a goddamn engagement ring or checkbooks with both you and your partner’s names on it. Fuck a tattoo of your partner’s name on your nalgas. Fuck meeting his parents and fuck the first phone call. The most important symbol in any relationship is the toothbrush. You know how santeros can read your past in cowery shells and fortunetellers can augur your future in tea leaves? I can divine the prospects of a relationship from a motherfucking toothbrush. Tengo un don bien fuerte.

There are two ways to address the toothbrush issue in a relationship. Each signify something vastly different The first is The Passive Aggressive Method (or the PA Method, as I will refer to it in the rest of this article). The second is The Let’s Talk About it Baby Method (the LTAB Method). There are subcategories within each method. So when someone has left their toothbrush in your apartment all you have to do is refer to this article to figure out what your future will be with that person.

The Passive Aggressive (PA) Method

It’s never advisable to be passive aggressive. When I act passive aggressively it is usually because I am insecure about what I am doing or I’m scared of the ramifications of what I am doing or because I’m scared of the person I am doing whatever I am doing to. Sometimes I’m passive aggressive because I just don’t want to deal with confrontation. The problem with being passive aggressive however, is that your message may be misunderstood because you’re not being openly communicative about it. For example, let’s say we live together and you always leave your dirty calzoncillos on the sofa and I fucking hate it. I decide to tackle the problem in a passive aggressive manner by picking up your calzoncillos and hanging them on your doorknob. You might take this to mean that I am helping you clean up after your filthy self. But really it means that if you leave your putrid panties on the sofa one more time, I might just punch you in the fucking chest.

Passive aggressiveness doesn’t allow for the effective communication of your feelings. You may think you’re settling the problem by stealthily avoiding it while dealing with it, but really you’re just letting it fester in your gut until it turns into a big, nasty deal when it didn’t have to in the first place. Way to go you passive aggressive dummy, you just made your problem a lot worse.

There are two subcategories within the PA Method: The Sneaky Tyrannical Oppressive Method, or the STO Method and the Oops My Bad Method, OMB Method. The STO method is the wackest one I have encountered in my life. By sneaking your toothbrush into my bathroom, you are by definition being oppressive and tyrannical. Let me share an example.

Once upon a time in a mystical and fucked up land called New York City, I lived unhappily ever after and sought comfort in random sex with random individuals. One of those random individuals began to turn into “someone special,” into someone I was “seeing.” Definitely not a boyfriend but someone who spent the night at my apartment at least twice a week. Definitely not a boyfriend but someone who I enjoyed having sex with, a lot. Someone who was acutely intelligent, exceedingly handsome, and fantastically charming. Oh yeah, I forgot to mention that he was also a certified NUTJOB! Which was good at first because it made me realize that I wasn’t the only crazy person in this world but then I realized that he was on some manipulative/mind control crazy shit. And, to tell you the truth, I was a victim of a good dick. You know when sometimes you just get blindsided by a high quality penis and it’s hard to find your bearings again? Yeah, his dick knocked me on my ass.

Anyway, one day I was fiending for some gooooooood sex. It had been a like a week since me and this dude had fucked and, to top it off, I had had really bad sex with someone else just a couple days before (just a hint guys, if you have to tell me to “say your name” when we’re fucking, that means that not only have I already forgotten your name but even as you thrust yourself in and out of me, I am in the process of forgetting that this night ever happened). So one day I invite this guy over for pancakes, conversation, and sex. We’re talking, the pancakes smell like a dream, it’s summertime and the blueberries burst in my mouth with peppery sweetness, we listen to Led Zeppelin, we smoke delicious weed. Everything is just splendid. As I was flipping the final pancakes and he talked about something or the other, he began to open a package. It was a small package and it came in a pharmacy bag. It was a toothbrush. He walked to the bathroom, put toothpaste on his brush and brushed his teeth. I thought little of it. There were more important things to think about: should I make a peach compote for the pancakes? Should I have anal sex with this man today? Clearly he had forgotten to brush his teeth at home and bought a toothbrush so he could fix his problem here at my apartment, before we got into anything heavy and his bad breath would offend me.

I had forgotten all about it until after he left, after the pancakes were eaten, after I had descended from the lofty peak of orgasm, when I was no longer high out of my mind. I walked into the bathroom to wash my face and stopped in my tracks with a gasp. What the fuck is this doing here? Above my sink, in the toothbrush holder, on the left hand side, in the middle hole: a blue and white Reach toothbrush with an angled head to get at the stubborn pieces of food that always seem to stick where the bristles won’t go, still wet from when it was broken in just a couple of hours ago. I stood there looking at this uninvited piece of plastic in my bathroom with my hands on my hips and my head cocked to the side. Ain’t that some shit…You sneaky, passive aggressive motherfucker.

This is a prime example of the STO Method. The toothbrush in question found its way into my life without my fucking permission, i.e. SNEAKY. The toothbrush in question irrationally insisted on existing in my bathroom without regard to what I wanted, i.e. TYRANNICAL. The toothbrush in question invaded my bathroom and usurped a position in my toothbrush holder against my will, i.e. OPPRESSIVE. The STO toothbrush loudly states, “I’m here, bitch! Deal!” And because I didn’t give the STO toothbrush permission, its presence makes me angry and contumacious. If something is oppressing me, I must rebel against it. And if something is oppressing me passive aggressively, I guess I’ll just have to rebel against it passive aggressively. In this case, I passive aggressively used the toothbrush in question to clean the toilet bowl. He he he.

The Oops, My Bad (OMB) Method is not inherently fucked up like the STO Method. The OMB Method can be employed both sincerely and insincerely. In other words, you could have really just forgotten your toothbrush, maybe you left it in your gym bag which you really did forget at your partner’s house. Or you could say to your partner that you forgot your toothbrush but really you “forgot” your toothbrush and really you left it there on purpose. Either way, when your partner brings it up, you say “Oops, my bad” hoping that s/he will say back, “No worries. Just leave it here.” Or you could make it really look as if it were an accident and bring it up first by saying something like, “OMG. I left my toothbrush here. My bad. How wack of me.” Then, naturally, your partner will say, “oh whatevs, I didn’t even notice it. You should just leave it here anyway.” Even though the OMB Method is not so bad, it still passive aggressively forces your partner into a position that maybe s/he was not ready to be in. If I want your toothbrush in my toothbrush holder, I will find a way to get it there, on my own terms.

The Let’s Talk About it Baby (LTAB) Method

Simple. Straightforward. But not necessarily easy. The LTAB Method also has two subcategories: the Straight-Up (SU) Method and the I Have a Present For You (IHAPFY) Method. Recently the man that I am currently dating (not seriously, promise) helped me to develop the theory of the LTAB Method. Here is what happened.

I was walking out of the bathroom and into my bedroom to cuddle into sleephood with this man. Just as I am about to turn out the light, he asks me if I had brushed my teeth. I said that I hadn’t because I felt bad brushing my teeth when he couldn’t because he didn’t have a toothbrush here. It’s not fair that I get to enjoy the refreshing feeling of just-cleaned teeth while all the food that he ate during the day rots in the noisome cesspool that our mouths turn into as we sleep. He responded by saying that he could use my toothbrush. I said, of course. Of course he could do that. Of course. I slid into bed and pushed my booty into his crotch to slip into dreaminess in a perfect spoon. But I must admit (don’t tell him this, okay?) I didn’t sleep well that night. I kept waking up to listen to him breath, to watch his mouth tick as he undoubtedly dreamed about laughing, or eating, or smiling really hard. What are you trying to pull?

He had brought up a topic that means something. But before I get into what the toothbrush actually means, let me describe both subcategories of the LTAB Method. What this man that I am seeing did was a combination of the two subcategories; it is undoubtedly the SU Method and it has led me to try out the IHAPFY method.

This man brought up the topic in a straightforward and confident manner. He needs to brush his teeth and has spent enough time at my place to ask about the toothbrush situation. The SU Method, especially the way in which it was employed by this man, is highly admirable because when you use it, you totally put yourself out on a limb. Anyone who uses the SU method is a keeper. If you don’t like the person then you have to at least give him/her props for bringing up a tough topic. To many people, sharing a toothbrush is absolutely gross, even with a consistent sexual partner. Which is weird…we can have each other’s genitals in our mouths but not our toothbrushes? So to ask me to borrow my toothbrush is brave because he risked committing a serious social faux pas. I could have been one of those people that takes the toothbrush sharing thing very seriously.

But whether you ask to borrow your partner’s toothbrush or you ask if you can have a spot in their toothbrush holder, by using the SU Method you are actively starting a conversation about the status of your relationship, which is dope because those are not easy to have. Because if you want to avoid the toothbrush conversation while still making sure you have fresh breath, you would just make sure to always have a toothbrush in the glove compartment of your car or in your purse and you would take it out right before you’re about to go to your partner’s house. That way you can fuck and also make sure you have a kissable mouth without having to worry about things getting confusing.

The second subcategory of the LTAB method is the I Have A Present For You (IHAPFY) method. Someone who employs the IHAPFY method has observed that her partner has brought a toothbrush over once or twice but mostly forgets it or that her partner has asked to borrow a toothbrush on a couple of occasions. And then one day as they are both in the bathroom stepping out of the shower she offhandedly says, “oh hey papi I have a present for you” and presents him with the toothbrush. The partner will then smile and say, “thanks” and then they will happily brush their teeth together, having avoided any awkward conversations about relationships, sharing toothbrushes, or which hole in the toothbrush holder will be given to the partner.

This second subcategory is sweet, kind, and thoughtful. It lets your partner know that you are thinking about them, that their oral hygiene is important to you, not just because you kiss that mouth but because you want them to be healthy. It also communicates that you want your partner to be comfortable when s/he is at your house. It is a small token that says, “I recognize that you spend a significant amount of time here and I want that to continue.” Yet, as I am writing this I also wonder if it is a little passive aggressive. What if your partner doesn’t want your gift? I don’t think it’s a big deal though. If you can’t appreciate the fact that I am trying to make your life easier, then you should fuck off anyway.

The Meaning of the Toothbrush

The toothbrush is definitely a step in a relationship. Whether it mysteriously and passive-aggressively finds its way onto your sink or whether it is openly discussed, it means something. It obviously represents the following:

1. That your partner cares about oral hygiene, which is a good thing.
2. That your partner is now thinking practically about the fact that s/he spends a significant amount of time at your place to warrant having a toothbrush there.

But this is what it intimates:

1. That your partner imagines him/herself spending more time at your place in the future.
2. That your partner likes hanging out at your place and, by extension, that s/he likes you.

The crazy thing is that it has any meaning at all. When the man I am (not seriously) dating asked me if he could use my toothbrush, why was I taken by surprise? We have swapped spit, hung out naked more often than with clothes on, had long conversations about bowel movements and farts, and have the most divine oral sex —frequently, ay qué rico. Why is it so weird to ask me to use my toothbrush? Perhaps because it connotes a level of intimacy that I didn’t know we were approaching. It seems as if every time we see each other, we talk about how this is not “a serious relationship.” But hey motherfucker, I think it’s pretty serious that you want to use my toothbrush to clean away your plaque. My pussy in your mouth is one thing, clearly not a serious thing, but my toothbrush in your mouth is completely different. Because if the toothbrush conversation insinuates that your partner wants to spend more time at your place because, by extension, s/he wants to spend more time with you, then doesn’t that mean that things might be turning a little serious? Holy shit...

So the plan is to try the IHAPFY method on this man I am (not seriously) dating. The next time I see him I’ll casually present him with a brand new toothbrush. I’ll say nothing else. Although it may mean that I know he enjoys spending time with me and will continue to spend time with me in the future (a prospect that both of us may or may not find really cool), I only really want it to mean that I care about his teeth. And his teeth are pretty fucking awesome.

Clear Blue Easy Redux

It's a good thing the guy I'm seeing (don't worry; it's not serious, we promise) has vowed (well not really) to never read my blog because if he read this he would feel REALLY awkward. Phew!

Remember a little while ago when I posted something about taking a pregnancy test? Well, after I finished it, I became kind of obsessed with the idea and I wrote more. And here is the finished product.

How My Baby Would Kill the Devil and God With A Bat of Her Non-Existent Eyelashes

Clear: the result
Blue: a little
Easy: not as much as you would think

Clear: I’m in the…
Blue: En este momento, in my bathroom with the blue tiles, my mosquito-bitten ass sitting on the blue bathtub, yo quiero estar en el mar. In the blue water, deadmanfloating looking up at the sky so bright blue it hurts.
Easy: Is that why they call me…

Clear: Pa’ que estemos claro. I don’t want a child but sometimes I see little hands wrapped around bigger ones en dondequiera: the market, the shoe store, the bus stop, the pharmacy and well, I can romanticize, right? I can be a woman in my latefuckingtwenties, right?
Blue: My vein bulging out of my forehead, when I’m worried. When I’m thinking too hard, assuming too much, when I cum and I fall.
Easy: Does it…But do it.

I am not pregnant.
Which is an extremely good thing for the following reasons:

1. I am unemployed
2. I like being unemployed and dread the day my rumbling belly will tell me to update my resume, get my ass on a bus, and work BITCH
3. I am slightly crazy

Yet, as of late, I have begun to feel the evil presence of all these hormones that I can’t pronounce but sure as hell can curse out because they’re making me feel things that I don’t want to. So, for five days I wondered, what if. What if for nine months the clothes that fit me a few days ago now rubbed into the swelling mound that housed half of me? What if my jeans could no longer hold in the life that grew so intensely inside of me that it stretched my skin, stretched my imagination far beyond the boundaries of my own selfishness? What if I started to cry at all the things that were supposed to make me sad before but didn’t? What if changes in hormones are just this littlealmostperson inside of me teaching me what it really means to be human? To be good. Finally. What if I could create something that wasn’t about receiving accolades, hugs, positive feedback from people I respect, props, a beer from a boy who wants to hit it or a smile from girl who thinks I’m cool? What if I were a mother like in the magazines at the supermarket checkout line? What if I talked to my baby about everything instead of saying “because I said so”? And she understood? What if I no longer hesitated to hug someone when she cried or walked away when she needed me?

***

It has been forty days. Forty days since I last looked down at my underwear and saw a stain like rust telling me it’s time. Time to plug myself up, to shed the lining of my uterus because I DON’T NEED IT THIS TIME AROUND. A stain like rust: as if I am not using my parts, as if I have forgotten about them! But I haven’t; and this is why I’m in trouble in the first place.

Forty days is a biblical amount of time. Jesus fasted and wandered through the desert for forty days and the Devil tried to tempt him three times. Each time, Jesus cited scripture and the Devil ran away. I think if I retreated to the desert for forty days, I would see the Devil too but surely I would not chase him away. I would need someone to talk to, someone to help me pitch my tent. Surely I would accidentally trade my soul for some directions. The Devil is a tricky, smooth-talking motherfucker, I hear.

According to the Christians handing out yellow pamphlets and telling me that “Dios me ama,” I don’t even have to wander into the desert to see the Devil. Apparently the Devil is the reason why I think I’m pregnant. If I have seen the Devil in the past forty days it has been:
1.
When I walked down the Paseo de Diego to buy some avocados and saw a young man, surely not older than me—pero ave Maria, how heroin ages you, he looked so tired.
He sat on the sidewalk, nodding out, almost hitting his head on the ground.
(But you know he never will right? The Devil has slipped an invisible noose around this man’s neck and he will never let him rest. Just when he slips into unconsciousness and his forehead is about to meet the grey reality of the cobblestones and he will finally be at peace, the Devil, sometimes quickly sometimes gently but always violently, tugs that invisible rope and wakes him up.)
The young man’s left arm is almost completely gone. A gash, the only abyss I’ve ever seen in my life, takes up the entire inside of his forearm.
So deep you see bone.
So deep you gasp.
So deep you don’t look but then you do again, avert your eyes, but then you look again.
So deep you wonder how he is still alive enough to ask you for a quarter.
But then you realize that it’s only the Devil that could be keeping him alive when clearly it would be better to be dead.
He is so far gone, his skin so slimy I thought my fingers would slide right into it as I pressed the shiny coin into his palm. Like Silly Putty, I swear to God.
(to who?)
The Devil made me want to wash my hands afterward.

2.
When I see the man with metal sticking out of his leg, walking around, with a Burger King bag full of somebody else’s left over french fries. I don’t really (want to) understand but will try to explain it:
Certainly he has broken his leg in many places
and someone was concerned enough to take him to the hospital.
The doctors performed a complicated surgery in order to put him back together,
a surgery that included sticking four shiny metal vises (is that what they are called?) into his calf bone.
Maybe those vises are supposed to be tightened on a precise schedule (you see, young man, you turn the little, butterfly-shaped metal thing approximately 14° to the right every two days. Remember: righty tighty, young man, righty tighty!)
Maybe he escaped from the hospital
or the hospital kicked him out
because he couldn’t pay.
or because he wanted more and more morphine and the nurses wouldn’t administer it to him
(maybe it’s the Devil that makes me think that).

A Portrait of the Devil on La Calle Humacao:

The Devil is not unprotected sex.
The Devil is heroin and he is destroying my island.

***

Forty days is the amount of time you fast before Easter. Forty days is the amount of time God made it rain. Forty days is how long it took Him to kill Everything. How long did it take Him to decide we were not worth living? To realize that He Fucked Up and needed to start all over again? A split second of a second thought perhaps. One hundred and eleven years is how long it has taken the United States to:

bomb the shit out of our island and say i'm sorry but not before babies were sorry they ever breathed in so deeply they inhaled fumes so toxic their lungs buckled under the weight of an asthma so powerful
sterilize the women on our island under the guise of testing birth control (“it’s better for you,” they say in english as they scrape our wombs clean of possibilities)
commit massacres in Ponce, in Utuado, Río Piedras, Jayuya, and San Juan
kill our leaders
imprison our leaders
replace our farmland with cement (“it’s progress,” they say in english as they pour highways over our houses)

It took the United States one hundred and eleven years to make sure we forgot what freedom was.

I know the United States is not God even though they both work in mysterious ways, here they are both unseen and all powerful, many Puerto Ricans look to them both for salvation and prosperity and will drop to our knees if either one of them tell us to, even though everyone here has a few family members they have lost to both of them.

QUE DIOS NOS BENDIGA (Cross yourself.)
QUE LA ESTADIDAD NOS BENDIGA (Wave your flag.)

For forty days I have been wandering in the desert that US imperialism has made. And if I have run into, crashed into, collapsed into the warm and inviting arms of sin, I don’t mind. God is a gringo in a suit that can’t get me off anyway.

***

I waited five days before I consulted the white plastic fortuneteller. For five days I thought about having to make one of the hardest decisions in my life. It wouldn’t be a baby anyway, right? It’s hard to reconcile pro-choice politics with the feelings that come from terminating something that all those pink and blue books say will give you unprecedented amounts joy. A mere collection of cells. A creature that will smile and grow and give your life meaning. Which one is it? Then there are those women who have babies for all the wrong reasons: to have someone to love you unconditionally, to have someone to love unconditionally, hoping it will make a man love you unconditionally, to put your womb to use before it lays to waste. I don’t want to be one of those women. For five days, however, I loved the potential group of cells in my may-or-may-not-be-empty womb.

I am scared of what these feelings mean. I am scared that my friends will think I have turned into some kind of pro-lifer evangelist, giving a spirit to a blob of blood and proteins. Yet for as much as I denounce religion, I can’t reject the pulsing spirits I feel inside of things (everythings): Have you ever sat on a rock in the middle of a river after it has rained long and hard, ants stinging your thighs, the chirping of frogs filling your ears? The leaves of the trees that hold you in that moment shield the sun from your eyes. Then they open to let the sun warm your shoulders, still cold from the swim you took to get to the most perfect spot in the world. Has that ever happened to you? Yes? Remember that spirit you felt as you hugged your knees close to your chest and closed your eyes? Then you must believe there is a spirit in the pin head-sized gathering of cells that began to take shape inside of you when you squeezed a man closer to you, squeezed your vaginal muscles tighter and tighter (no te vayas) as that man came inside of you. How can you not want to protect that bead of potential life in the same way you wanted to protect that man from everything bad this world will hurl at him, as his head rested on your collar bone and you noticed with every swelling of his chest as he inhaled, your chest caved as you exhaled? There are many things in this world I want to cradle in the clammy crook where my bicep meets my forearm: the baby brown bird with a broken wing I found on the street the other day, fresh baked bread that has risen perfectly, a branch separated from its tree during a storm, a book that makes me miss my stop on the subway, a beautiful man after he has fallen from orgasm, the idea of being a mother even better than my own.

***

Triplets

One evening when I was a senior in high school, I gave birth to a little pink ball of flesh. To this day I have no idea what it was. I remember sitting in the common room of my dorm and doing my homework when I felt something uncomfortable in my underwear, like when you haven’t put a tampon in correctly and you can feel it slipping out. It did not hurt and I do not remember if this birth was preceded or followed by cramps or blood. I remember I was not menstruating at the time. When I went to the bathroom, I pulled something out of my vagina that was about the size of a golf ball. It was the color of my insides: a pink you would never wear, blue bulging lines the color of your eyelids when you’re sick. I placed it on a wad of toilet paper. I sat on the floor of the bathroom for quite some time observing it. It was a hard, little thing. I flushed it down the toilet and told no one about it. Sometimes I wonder if that was the only chance I would be given to… A chance…in and of itself. I mourn it but there is nothing I can do.

Mom told me once that you had two abortions when you were a teenager. Those were hard times, huh sis? Dad, a full-blown tecato fuck up. Mom, depressed and barely holding it together. I was still in boarding school and I rarely came home cuz I hated it. When I did, we pulled each other’s hair and clawed at each other’s faces. I’m sorryI’m sorryI’m sorry Those two procedures were secrets, never daring to cross the tightrope of your lips. I want to ask you about them, to get the advice older sisters are supposed to impart on little ones. What was it like, both times? Was the second one harder or easier than the first? Did you take a pill, sis? Did you have a surgery, sis? So many things are not talked about between us. People say we look like twins. But I don’t see it. If you looked like me, surely we would have more in common, more stories to share, more mindtomind connections that would take the place of conversations. You have two dogs you refer to as the girls, just like mom and dad refer to us. It’s so good to have all my girls here for Christmas, dad, now clean and happy, says.

I had a dream that I carried a baby in a dark Washington DC. I held her in my arms in a blanket. She was me as a baby. I held myself and I wasn’t crying. We were lost and there were police officers who helped us find the metro station. When I got to the escalators, all the gears and chains and mysterious machinery that makes things move were exposed and each step was like a grate but there was a wide space in between each bar and there was a wide space in between in step. I didn’t want to get on. I didn’t want to get swallowed. The baby was not scared. I remember the dream in shades of blue and grey. We were by the baseball stadium, even though I had never been there in real life, but it was under construction. The only sounds were the loud churning and clunking of the escalator, the drills drilling, hammers pounding, men throwing planks of wood into piles.

***

For five days I thought about this moment right now, in the bathroom, sweating, shaking, not wanting to look at myself in the mirror, not knowing which result would be the right one. Then I peed into a white plastic fortuneteller and waited for two minutes for either one or two lines. One line=I’m good. Two lines=I’m fucked. (???)

Why was I doing this all alone? Certainly I wasn’t the only one who got myself into this mess! These are the names I called the man who made me think I was preggers:

1. sperm donor
2. asshole
3. mi amor
4. douchebag
5. papi
6. lindo
7. jerk
8. dick
9. wonderful

These names floating in and out of my head as I carefully read the instructions to my pregnancy test.

***

(Setting: Raquel’s pink and blue bathroom in Río Piedras. It is early afternoon. The mirror is broken, the toilet is running, the garbage can is full to the brim with toilet paper. There are two cats fighting loudly outside and the neighbor is blasting “Loba” by Shakira. It is hot. There are two identical Raquels. They are both sweating. They are both naked except for a turquoise towel wrapped around their chests. They are sitting on the edge of the blue bathtub. Raquel is reading the instructions to the pregnancy test. Other Raquel is looking at them over her shoulder.)

Raquel: (Visibly angry.) What a douchebag, he couldn’t even return my phone call.
Other Raquel: (Smiling. Not really listening to what Raquel is saying.) He’s probably just busy. He’s beautiful! Think about what his baby would look like!
Raquel: No. I don’t want to think about his stupid baby. I swear to God, it better not be inside of me. Fucking jerk, he knew I was going to do the test today.
Other Raquel: Well maybe he didn’t get the message because he had no service, you know that can happen where he lives. (Gets up and dances around the bathroom.) ¡Ay pero qué lindo, qué precioso, qué HOMBRE!
Raquel: Well that dick should have been paying attention to his phone. God, I hope I’m not pregnant! If I am, I swear , I’ll rip my uterus out and beat the shit out of him with it!
Other Raquel: It’ll be okay. Just because he’s not here, doesn’t mean he doesn’t care. After all, he’s wonderful! And maybe we can have wonderful babies together!
Raquel: (Now infuriated.) You know what, fuck you! You just don’t get it!
Other Raquel: (Insulted.) Hey! No, fuck you!
Raquel: No, fuck YOU! (She picks up other Raquel by the hair and flushes her down the toilet. We hear the gurgled screams of Other Raquel. Raquel sighs heavily as she sits back down on the rim of the bathtub.)

***

***

For five days I entertained the romanticized idea of what it would be like to have a child:

I would do yoga everyday so that my baby would come into this bleak world flexible, ready to bend and not be broken by the difficult situations this world would throw at her. I would eat only the purest foods—clean the soil from them with my fingernails—so that my baby would be healthy, not addicted to the chemicals, preservatives, and artificial colors that only serve to make us weak to the interests of companies who only think they are larger and more powerful than the love I would have for that imaginary child inside my may-or-may-not-be-empty womb.

I would sing to her and dance with her to give her the lightness of spirit that will allow her to travel inside the spirits of others and heal them. You see, my baby would be a traveler. And I would pack her suitcase with epiphanies, lullabies, hands to hold, and bombas molotov.

My baby would see inside of you, see through the wool you try to pull over her eyes, see solutions in people blinded by ignorance. See possibilities, shiny and brilliant as shards of broken glass, in this society inured by colonialism. She would have x-ray vision, even though she would probably wear thick glasses, like her mother, the kind that magnify your eyes and make you look like a spider(woman).

I would exercise everyday so she could be strong enough to Fuck. Shit. Up. Tear down seemingly impenetrable walls of silence. Slice through handcuffs with the sharp blade of her tongue. Lift the weight of US occupation off of our chests with her bare, calloused hands. Carry the baggage our grandmothers have hauled for too long with their long, sinewy fingers spotted with age, broken by generations of hearing “no, eso no se hace.” She would be strong enough to love whomever she wanted, fearlessly, fiercely because I would have planted that love inside of her, fearlessly and fiercely.

I would give offerings to Yemayá and Ochún so my baby could be one with them. Offerings of the blood that escapes from my skin as I fearfully jump and crash into their laps. Offerings that would help those water goddesses drown out the Devil’s distractions so my baby could swim through this world with her eyesWIDEopen in water with waves so powerful they knock the weak off their feet and wash away the non-believers.

But I
am not
pregnant.

So I sit on the edge of the blue bathtub and stare at the white, plastic fortuneteller that comes in the aluminum wrapping that comes in the white and pink box, that is Walgreens brand because my first response to First Response was, “hell no, my unemployed ass will not spend eight more dollars for the same shit I can get for $11.99.” And I wait for the second blue line to not show up. And in the empty white space that confirms my empty uterus, after the two minutes of obligatory waiting time, I see nothing.

And now
I don’t have to say
Nothing
To him
I don’t have to plan
Nothing
With him.
I don’t have to worry about
Nothing.
And so,
I throw out the white plastic fortuneteller in the white plastic bag it came to me in, roll a cigarette, pour a glass of wine,
And feel.
Nothing.

Sex is NOT normal

As you undoubtedly remember, reasons seven and eight in last week's “Top 10 Reasons NOT to Have Sex” were the following: Because you know the other person wants it really badly and because you’ve already kinda, sorta started to. Since last Sunday, I’ve been thinking even more about what it means to have consensual sex and about the nature of the sexual act in general. These are two very big things to think about. It’s a good thing I’m unemployed and have all the time in the world to go to the beach and think about them.

I feel as if I am caught between two ideas: normalizing sex and other physical needs/desires and celebrating my body (and the female body in general) as a special, unique, and beautiful present that must be worshiped and taken care of. So on the one hand, I want to be able to think of sex as just another thing that we human beings do, whether for procreation, to get off, or to show someone that you love them. Something normal, like cooking, waiting for the bus, sending a text message, or riding a bike. But on the other hand, I want my sexual partners to love and respect my body, no matter if it’s the first or the thousandth time we are fucking. And I don’t think most people love and respect a spatula, or the bus driver, or our cell phones, or our bikes like I would want my partner to love and respect my body. Therein lies the conundrum: how to normalize an act that also has the potential to do many powerful things, like produce life in some circumstances or destroy you (at least emotionally), in others.

…deep breath, here it goes: some (disjointed and fragile) thoughts on sex…

If sex is to become a normal thing then it should not bother me when dudes try to holler at me on the street. Why, it’s just like asking for directions, yes? If I can’t tell you which bus to catch to get to the stadium, I politely say, “sorry, I can’t help you.” If I don’t want your dick up my ass as you have offered to me every time I pass by you on the way to the train station, I should politely say, “thank you very kindly but I’d rather not” and get along with my very NORMAL day. (???) If sex is to become a normal thing than the following two conversations would end in a very similar way:

Conversation 1: Boy: Hey, Raquel. I really want to ride bikes with you again. I think it'll be loads of fun. (The boy gets out his bike and starts to mount it.) Me: Eh, I don't know. We rode for a long time yesterday and my knees kind of hurt. Let's just stay in and watch a movie. (I'm rubbing my knees.) Boy: Aww come on, don't be such a wimp. We'll just take a couple turns around the block. Besides, I have all this pent up energy that only exercise can help me release. (The boy brings out my bicycle and nudges me towards it.) Me: Nah, besides I don't have a helmet. I don't like to ride without one. (I step away from the boy and my bike.) Boy: Come on Raquel. Only herbs use helmets. Besides it's just a quick trip around the block. Hey, tell you what, if you come with me, I'll buy you an ice cream cone afterward. (Takes me hand and pulls me closer to my bike.)

Conversation 2: Boy: Damn, Raquel. Having sex with you is awesome. Let's do it again. (The boy whips out his penis and starts to stroke it.) Me: No way. You fucked the shit out of me just a little while ago and my coochie needs to recuperate. (I'm occluding my vagina with my cupped hands.) Boy: Aww come on, don't be like that girl. Just gimme a little taste that's all; just the tip, I promise. Besides, look I'm already hard and I have to release this energy somehow. (The boy grabs my waist, pulling me closer to him.) Me: No! Besides, we don't have anymore condoms. We can't have sex without a condom. (I move away to the other side of the bed). Boy: Come on, babygirl. We don't need a condom. It's just the tip, I promise. Come on, just the tip and I won't bother you anymore. Besides, you're just so wet. (He comes closer to me and puts the tip of his penis inside of me.)

At this point, in the bike conversation, I would playfully decline again and suggest the boy go on his own, promising to go with him tomorrow. Or maybe the ice cream offer would do the trick and I’d say, “fuck my knees, let’s ride bikes and eat ice cream.” There would be no awkward feelings, no pressure, no anger, and no regret, whether I decide to ride bikes with him or not.

Not so in the sex conversation. At this point in the Conversation Two, I would feel a fiery amalgam of awkwardness, pressure, and hatred. Awkward because we’ve already had sex and the guy is kind of a nice guy (I thought) and it feels weird to be so forceful with someone you’ve already been so intimate with. Pressure because I really don’t want to have sex but I already have with this guy and he really wants to and he clearly doesn’t care about my wishes or my physical state but goddamit he won’t give up. Pressure because his penis is in my face. Pressure because he’s not listening to me. Pressure because I thought I said I didn’t want to but his penis is inside of me. Hatred because all I want to do is kick him so hard in the balls that they fall off. Hatred at me because I question whether I am asserting myself enough (I thought you were stronger than this…). At this point in the conversation, I would tell him more forcibly that I don’t want to have sex. I would get angry. But maybe it wouldn’t happen so easily. Maybe I would let him into me for a couple of unpleasant thrusts to shut him the fuck up before I fully realize that I am doing something that I really don’t want to be doing. Maybe all sorts of questions would float in and out of my brain as he groans on top of me and I look past his eyes and at the ceiling above me: is this okay, why am I making a big deal out of this, is this what I want, it doesn’t always have to be pleasurable right, why are there so many gray areas, or maybe there are no gray areas maybe everything is black and white and I’m trying to convince myself this isn’t totally fucked up.

If sex was normal, not wanting it would be like not wanting to ride my bike.
If sex was normal, it would never turn into a power play with the same people always winning and Others always feeling lost or conquered.
If sex was normal, I wouldn’t worry so much about whether or not I am doing the right thing.
If sex was normal, I wouldn’t think about how I’ll feel in the morning.
It would be just like making a decision between walking or biking to the library.
Sandals or sneakers today?
Beer or wine?
Sex or no sex? (But why do I feel a lump in my throat?)

However. I don’t think that we should treat sex as something sacrosanct, something only to be reserved for that “special someone.” Because what the fuck is a “special someone” anyway? Even the biggest assholes in this world can put on a “special someone” mask and fool me into inviting them between my legs. Or certainly, whom I defined as a special someone when I was seventeen is probably not going to be the same special someone I’d fuck now that I’m twenty-seven. Besides, I think defining sex as this sacred act can be rather dangerous. We risk falling down that slippery slope that eventually leads to abstinence-only education and pro-life demagoguery. It leads us to believe that sex can’t be random, spontaneous, and varied. In other words, this “special someone” idea takes all the juicy scandals out of our sexual experiences and leaves us with the “nice stories” of nice boys, nice girls, nice gender-queers.

Which isn’t to say that special someones don’t exist or that it isn’t spectacular to have sex with a special someone. I can count two special someones in the story of my sexual experiences. How wonderful is it to realize that you’re sharing your body with someone who sees you as more than just a series of holes to stick something in and out of. To feel comfortable in my skin, in my desires. To feel like a human being. I’m lucky to be able to experience this, to be able to smile with someone while making love to them. I love that. Who made that rule by the way? The rule that we have to look so serious when we’re fucking? If there is any rule that is meant to be broken, it’s that one. If I’m having a good time, I’m going to smile and if it weirds someone out that I smile during sex, they definitely don’t get to hit it again.

Somewhere in this blog post is a new understanding of sex. Maybe it’s not new to anyone else, but it certainly is to me (sorry if I’m saying obvious shit here). Somewhere in this blog post is the assertion that sex and confidence are at once the same thing and vastly different. The more confident I feel with a person, the easier it’s going to be to tell them that I have a problem with what we are doing. Yet when I feel confident in myself and in my partner, the less likely I am to have a problem in the first place. But sometimes sex has nothing to do with confidence and you just want to fuck. Sometimes you just need to get off and all you need is a random polvo to do the trick. Yet. It is not always easy to separate the two, sex and confidence. They give to and take from one another. Somewhere in this blog post is a demand of myself. Give me back my control, so I can take all the pleasure this life has to offer.

A pleasant midweek addition

pa que sepan...

my vagina's not that hairy, at least not right now. but what if it were? you got a problem with that, dickhead? fuck you.

Top 10 Reasons to NOT Have Sex: 6-10

Once again, in no particular order. Once again, exposing a lot...

REASON SIX: Because you’ve done it before with this person. Why not do it again?

Ah, routines. One of the most important reasons why I moved to Puerto Rico was to break free from what my life in New York City had turned into: a restrictive set of ossified routines. I didn’t come here to fall into another set of habits, whether they be for work or play. But sometimes, we find ourselves falling into the most tedious of sexual ruts. And it’s only when we’re in the middle of one (shot-beer-bat my eyelashes-whisper something suggestive-caress my…-shot-beer-flash a smile-whisper something suggestive-caress my…-car-fuck-bed-fuck-sofa-fuck-kitchen-fuck) with someone we’ve slept with before but are not too interested in making it happen again, that we can really appreciate how knee-deep in the shit we actually are.

Sexual routines come in at least two unexciting flavors: first, is the one that finds us fucking the same person just because s/he knows our bodies, or because s/he is somewhat reliable, or because it’s just an easy lay. Second, is the one that finds you fucking in the same position over and over again because you know you’ll get off easily that way or because you know it’ll get your partner off and you want that to happen fairly quickly because you have other shit to do. I know I can’t be the ONLY woman in the world that will hop on top of guy during bad sex because I know I’m more likely to cum when I’m on top. You know when that happens, when the sex is so boring and you might as well be dead because it wouldn’t make a difference to the beast who is sweating on top of you anyway and you decide to take shit into your own hands and at least help yourself to an orgasm, for chrissake. And you know the best way to do that is to ride him, so you do it not because you want to share a delicious orgasm with this sweaty beast now underneath you but just because…just because. And then you turn around and let him hit it doggy style cuz you know he’ll cum approximately 18.7 seconds after he breaches the walls of your yawning vagina.

The first routine I mentioned, although not necessarily as oppressive as the one I just explained, is still a dangerous one to fall into. Why am I having sex with the same person even though I really don’t like them? Is it because I’m not trying to find sexual release anywhere else? Do I think I can’t find it anywhere else and I am settling for someone I know will give it to me? Why am I calling this person who really doesn’t make me feel all that good in the first place? Is it because it’s a Wednesday and for the past ten Wednesdays I’ve shared a bed with this man? Sex without the emotional risk. It sounds fantastic but it can also be quite burdensome.

REASONS SEVEN AND EIGHT: Because you know the other person wants it really badly or because you’ve already kinda, sorta started to.

So I’ve been thinking a lot lately about the word “consent” and the term “consensual sex.” And I’ve come to the conclusion that I have to be a lot more vocal when I don’t want to have sex. I mean, I’m already fairly open with my partners about what I like, dislike, and want to have absolutely nothing to do with. But there are still sometimes when I find myself having sex with someone and it hurts or I’ve fallen out of the mood or we’re doing something that I find uncomfortable but yet I continue to do it. And I’m a a little scared to admit that but I have a feeling that a lot women have felt similarly before. Whether it’s because the relationship is new and you don’t want to disappoint your partner sexually or because it’s late into the relationship and you don’t have the energy to stop all those unwanted thrusts, I think women have sex when they don't want to more often than we admit. And I think there exists in the popular media this notion that this is okay. That one of the things we have to put up with is the unwanted sexual advances of men, whether they be strangers on the street or people you love enough to let rest in your arms. There is clear difference in my mind between rape and this kind of “I’ll-look-the-other-way-while-you-fuck-me” thing. I think. I mean, I know…the difference…I do. I do. But sometimes when I am underneath a man, huffing and grunting absentmindedly on top of me (always it happens when they’re on top of me), I wonder what he would say if he knew just how much I wanted to break that vein bulging out of his neck with my teeth and watch him bleed to death.

I hate doing things I don’t want to do.


I will not fuck anyone out of pity, because his balls are blue, or because maybe he has already tasted the inside of me. I will fuck someone because I want to. And when I don’t want to anymore, I will stop. I think that’s worth posting as a facebook message.

REASON NINE: Because you want him to stay and cuddle.

Never gonna happen. If you’re in some kind of argument or otherwise fucked up situation with someone, just because you give up the pussy does not mean s/he is going to stay. As a matter of fact, with dudes I have found the opposite to be true. They leave because they’ve already gotten the best part, i.e. the pussy. Do I sound bitter? I don’t mean to but it’s just so undeniably true! I really wish it weren’t. Y no es todo el tiempo que quiero hacer mimos después del sexo...de hecho, unless I really like you, I don’t even want to wake up in the middle of the night to your leg brushing gently up against mine. It’s like a cat looking for attention so it rubs its nasty self on your leg when you’re at your computer or eating or whatever. I just want to sleep! I don’t want to be reminded of your stupid presence. And anyway, doesn’t it feel good to tell a guy to fuck off after sex?

(Scene: My bedroom. Late at night. On my bed. Only one lamp is on. The sheets are crumpled on the floor and me and a boy are laying side by side, sweaty and panting. The boy runs his fingers up and down my arm. The condom is still on his penis.)
Me: Uh, that was great. Thanks. A lot. That was awesome.
Him: Yeah…You’re so…
Me: I really wanna sleep by myself tonight.
Him: Oh, word…it’s cool. I can leave. (He reaches for his underwear. Unfortunately he still has his socks on and I HATE that.)
Me: Really? You don’t mind? You’re such a sweetheart. (I turn over onto my side and close my eyes.) Do me a favor and turn off the lights as you leave. The door locks automatically.

But when I really like someone, cuddling is just as spectacular as sex (I fucking mean that, too). Tell me: what could possibly feel better than being spooned by someone wonderful? What is as perfect as curling up and putting your booty into his crotch while he wraps his arms around your chest and kisses your ears while you kiss the inside of his elbows, that clammy spot where his bicep meets his forearm? Ay Virgencita…But fucking him will not bring your booty to rest next to his beautifully exhausted genital area. Even if it does, let’s just say he spends the night, he’s still gonna leave in the morning. And the fact is that to your insecure ass, that’s still not enough. He’s still leaving and you still want him to stay inside of you, to sleep inside of you forever. So when he leaves, at night or in the morning, you will pull the sheets close to your chest and you will feel abysmally alone.

REASON TEN: Because he reminds you of an asshole ex.

Maybe it’s because he’s a Leo and your ex that you caught fucking some other chick at a party was a Leo.
Maybe it’s because he plays an instrument and it’s the same instrument your ex played, the same fucking ex who was inexcusably emotionally abusive.
Maybe it’s because he kisses you the same way as this other dude once did…

It doesn’t matter! If I perceive that there is something substantial in you that reminds of me of a dickhead ex, I can’t have sex with you, I’m sorry. Because then I’ll be making all these unfair comparisons between you and him. I'll start making up all these reasons why everything you do reminds me of him! And even if it's an ex I broke up with amicably, I still shouldn't be making those comparisons. It's a good thing there are billions of people in this world and that many of them are very different from one another because that way I have lots of chances to meet people that don't remind me of the three people in this world I really don't want to be reminded of. Like, please don’t ask me to date a Sagitarius again because I won’t. They’ll just wind up always putting their needs before mine, hell, before they remember that I even have needs. Nope.

Live and learn. That’s what I (try really really really hard) to do.

Top 10 Reasons to NOT Have Sex: 1-5

So I know you're thinking that I must have taken a break last week to turn all Christian and shit because now I'm coming back with a post with a pretty heavy title. But, mis amores, esto no es el caso. I needed a little break. Things got a little deep here in San Juan and I needed to stop and reflect on some serious shit. As I was reflecting, I came to some new conclusions. Ten of them actually. Ten reasons to not have sex. Now, before you get all riled up, be assured that I am NOT advocating celibacy and that none of the reasons that you will soon read will mention Jesus, God, or the Virgin Mary, except when I take their names in vain. What follows is a list of reasons to not have random sex. No no, not even that. It's more like a list of things to ponder previous to parting with your panties for the night. As you know, I like to use the second person in my writing, but I'm really just writing this shit for me. I need to remind myself of the really bad reasons I have convinced myself at some point in my life were excellent reasons to fuck. However, I have grown older and wiser and, needless to say, I will nevereverever again have sex for these reasons (you know I'm fucking with you, right? Soy la más pendeja when it comes to sex; fuck reason, yes?). By the way, these are in no particular order:

REASON ONE: Because you're mad at your partner and you want to get back at him/her.

So your partner is being a major dickface. Maybe he didn't call you when he said he would. Maybe he broke your hopeful heart and hurt your little feelings. Maybe instead of going out with you that night, he preferred to sit at home in his filthy calzoncillos and watch pornography or illegally download ridiculous amounts of music that he'll never have the time to listen to anyway, or something else that is not nearly as fun as grinding hard with you at the club. So you went out anyway and...encontraste a un chico en la disco que sí quiere perrear y, pa colmo, es buenismo. It turns out you don’t need old dickface anymore because you’ve found someone who will pay attention to you, thank you very much. Not only does this dude pay attention, he also pays for drinks. This is wonderful for many reasons: because you’re broke but so angry that you still want to get drunk and be reckless anyway and because you know that if dickface in the dirty calzoncillos knew that some other motherfucker was buying you drinks, he’d be so angry and that is an anger that you could never imbue in him no matter how many names you called him or how many doors you slammed in his face. Never has a beer tasted as good as the free one you are drinking at that moment with his handsome stranger.

You decide, therefore, to fuck him because you know that fucking this dude would piss your partner off royally, even though you will probably never tell him. And so you fuck and it’s awful. You know why it’s awful? Because you feel guilty as all hell. You totally just exacerbated the problem. Sex changes things. Sex changes everything. Somehow this random sex has done at least two really awkward things:

1. It has made you see that the dude passed out next to you was not that hot to begin with. As soon as you came and your mind was lifted from the fog that surrounded you as you sweatily attempted to reach that summit, you remembered that you don’t even remember his name and that you don’t want to. You remembered that there is someone you like so much that you let that someone piss you off and that this person snoring next to you is not that someone. As you settle into the moment of clarity that comes only after you come, you remember that you originally wanted to go out with your partner. And you’re pissed again. And you’re hurt again.
2. It has made it seem as if what you’re partner did to make you mad was not so bad in the first place. This is where the guilt creeps in. And now the guilt is turning the tables without your permission. Now that you’ve had sex with someone else, it is impossible to deal with the problem of your partner as it originally was. You’ve complicated it (way to go, loser). Now you’ll either easily forgive him for something that he should have to work a little harder to get your forgiveness for or you’ll blow up at him, hoping he’ll feel bad enough to apologize when really you’re the one that feels so bad and you’re just dumping your shitty feelings of remorse on him.
   

Whatever winds up happening, fucking someone else to get back at a partner for pissing you off is not cool at all. Instead of being such a spinelesschickenshit who can’t express her feelings because she’s scared of being vulnerable and winds up expressing those feelings in a way that makes everything eight BILLION times worse, I (I mean, you…naturally) should just talk to my (I mean, your) dude about why I’m (fuck, I mean YOU are) pissed off.

REASON TWO: Because you’re sad about someone, you miss him/her and you want to stop thinking about them.

This kind of sex will lead to nothing but further shitty feelings. The kind of shitty feelings that make you cry stupid tears into your stupid pillow. Promise. And you’ll have no one to blame it on but your stupid self. This kind of sex leads to innumerable comparisons between the person you are sad about and the person whose penis happens to be inside your vagina, or your mouth, or your ass. Let’s just say the person you are missing is named...uh...Joe. If you are sad because of Joe and you have sex with someone else this is what is going to go through your mind the entire time: Joe would totally be eating me out right now and it would be wonderful…Joe has the most beautiful eyes…why can’t I be with Joe…Joe’s penis fits perfectly inside my vagina…why can’t I be with Joe…the last time I had sex (what? Oh you want to hit it from behind now, ok, hold on, go 'head) where was I…oh yeah, the last time I had sex with Joe, it was so magical…I like the way Joe looks at me when I’m on top of him… why can’t I be with Joe…Joe’s hands feel like heaven on my skin…Joe makes me feel beautiful… why can’t I be with Joe…You get the picture. I swear, it’s only going to cause you more agony. No matter how good the sex could be at the moment, if you’re sad about someone else, it’ll be nothing more that lugubrious lovemaking. And that’s so inexplicably wack. Because it's a waste: a waste of a condom, a waste of a good penis, a waste of money because you probably spent a lot of it on alcohol, a waste of energy because it took so much of it to not cry while you were fucking and to pretend that you were oSOintoIT.

REASON THREE: Because you went out with a friend and she has found someone to hook up with and/or because your friends (who are also drunk) say you should.

Just because we’re adults doesn’t mean that peer pressure has ceased to have an effect on us. In fact, I have found that when I’m on a manhunt with a friend and she has already captured her prey, I feel really bad about myself. I wind up feeling ugly, fat, unfunny, like I’m a bad dancer, stupid, boring...in other words, completely worthless. I wind up going to the bathroom way too often to check myself out only to realize that I still think I look hideous. Then your friend comes along and she tells you that the dude she found has a friend. You look in the mirror again at your repulsive reflection, noticing that you keep getting more homely by the minute. You say, "fuckit" and go to meet this dude you will eventually be having sex with. After all, your friends have only your best interests in mind, right? Mmmm...Not so much when it comes to fucking. In this case, she’s trying to get laid just as badly as you are and she knows that finding you someone to get you off will only make her own situation easier. And you can't blame her. After all, if you go home with someone else then maybe she doesn’t have to worry about giving you a ride or at least she doesn’t have to worry about feeling bad that she found someone and you didn’t. So, even though she’s your homegirl, she may still be acting out of selfishness. Or maybe not, maybe she truly is being altruistic and really wants to see you happy. Regardless, I need to be making my own decisions about whom I let into my coochie.

So we should never let our friends dare us or drunkenly convince us to fuck someone else. Because sometimes those friends are just looking out for a friend too. It’s THE worst when a friend has introduced you to one of their friends, hoping that you’ll get together but you feel nothing for them. And then you’re at a party and you’re drinking and all of a sudden you feel obligated to have sex with this person who makes you feel…nothing. And then your friend elbows your ribs and whispers into your ear, “OMG! You guys are getting along SO well! I knew you would!” And you just want to say, “No we’re not. Please get me the fuck out this situation!” But by then your friend is already gone and her friend is already unbuckling your belt and kissing your neck.

REASON FOUR: Because you know this dude has an obscenely large penis.

I’m sick of big penises. Every dude with a big dick can jump off a fucking bridge for all I care. Or, no, they can go fuck themselves. Literally. Take your own dick, that you’re so fucking obsessed with, and shove it up your own goddamn ass, if it’s so fucking big. ¡No soporto los bichotes! And I don’t give a fuck what you motherfuckers say. I’m serious. Yo, on the real...I haven’t fucked one dude with a big dick that willingly ate me out. WTF?!? Why do I have to remind you to eat my pussy? Do you ever have to remind me to suck your dick? No. ¡Yo lo hago obligado! That’s like part of the meal. Like rice and beans. Chichaito con Medalla. Peanut butter and fucking jelly! Sexo y una mamada! Bed and head! Esto es lo más basico. Como Sexo 101. Just because you have a big dick doesn’t mean you get to weasel your way out of giving head.

Listen nenas, we need to stop our infatuation with big dicks. Because we are only making dudes with large members more lazy. We’re making them feel like they don’t have to develop any other essential skills (either sexual, emotional, or intellectual). You know what’s better that a dude with a big dick? A dude who loves eating me out. Talk about a needle in a haystack. Estoy segura que hay más hombres en este mundo con bichos grandes que hombres que le encanten mamar. So you know what, I’m gonna play like an anthropologist trying to find the Lost Civilization of the Happy Pussy Eaters. And every time I find a resident of that civilization, I’m gonna make him feel like a king. Because I know that dude will be all about getting me off. If you find a dude with a big dick I guarantee he’s not all about getting you off. What he is all about is talking about how big his cock is. And that’s like the most boring conversation ever:

Him: You know, hehehe, I have a monstrously big dick.
Me: Oh yeah, I have a monstrously big zit hiding under my bangs. Wanna see it?
Him: No.
Me: Fuck off then.

REASON FIVE: Because you are feeling slightly insecure about yourself.

Jesus. This one is kind of related to number three. I guess it’s like Oprah says, “you can’t expect someone to love you if you don’t love yourself.” Or some shit like that, right? Only thing I’m switching it to, “You can’t expect anyone to fuck you well if when you look in the mirror, you wouldn’t even fuck yourself.” When I’m depressed, masturbating is the most awful thing. Because I don’t love myself and so I’m not getting myself off as I would someone I loved. I do it as if I was doing something wrong and then I feel bad about it afterward. Like I wasted time or like I should have called my sister to see how she’s doing and now I’ve convinced myself I’m a horrible sister, you know? On the other hand, when I’m feeling awesome, masturbating is a celebration of me. I use all my toys. I even put on special underwear. The best is when I can take a nap afterward. Those are the most special naps ever. When I fuck someone hoping to climb out of the gutter of insecurity, guess how I feel afterward? Cheap. Ugh. It’s the WORST! And then when I’m having sex with them, I worry about how I look, if my “O” face is hot enough (forget the fact that I’m too busy having NO confidence to actually have an orgasm), I worry about if I’m giving good enough head, if I’m wet enough, if my vagina’s smelly, blah blah blah.

No, I can’t put someone’s penis in charge of making me feel good about myself. Seriously, for as corny and cliché as it sounds, I really have to respect and love myself first before I expect to have good sex. And in those moments, when I ask myself why I'm having sex, if I'm doing it because I want to celebrate myself and I want the person I am with to celebrate with me, it’s not only hard to be honest with myself, it’s tiring. That’s why drinking is not all that great either. I mean, alcohol is wonderful but it can make me forget about things that maybe I should be working really hard on, you know, like building up a self-confidence of steel.

Whew...that was hard. I'm gonna go drink a beer and smoke a cigarette now. Next week: 6-10.

System Error

Error Message # 26102009imANidiot

The following blog posting: I love you, you, & you (but mostly me) has been removed from this site for the following reason: TECHNICAL DIFFICULTIES.



Below are the details of the error report:

• Irreparable communication errors stemming from a stubborn refusal to listen to many hints that if any more obvious would have slapped your stupid ass in the face
• Jumping too quickly into shallow and unrealistic conclusions
• Distance, distance, distance that can’t be crossed by bike, half-dead car, or runner’s legs
• Mismatched priorities

The above errors have led to the following: PARTIAL SYSTEM SHUTDOWN

To fix this problem, please carefully follow these instructions:

• Listen to music that confirms your sadness
• Listen to music that confirms that men are douchebags
• Smoke cigarettes
• Swim in the ocean until when you lay down to sleep at night, your arms feel wiggly like they're still under the influence of the waves
  
• Run until your legs hurt
• Call your number two and kiss him

We wish someone would apologize for the extreme inconvenience this error has caused and also promise to make sure it will never, ever happen again.

Thank You
System Administrator

¡El Paro Nacional y los QUEERS!

As I have grown older, I have become more comfortable with my identity (thank the spirits) even as that identity continues to complicate itself. I remember the good ole days (do you see the sarcasm dripping from my words?) at my bourgie boarding school Milton Academy, when I used to agonize over being one of a handful of scholarship kids and being one of an even smaller handful of people of color. I evaded questions about what my parents did for a living and didn’t talk about what I was doing over vacations—because, clearly, my ass wasn’t going skiing in the Alps or scuba diving in the Yucatan Peninsula. That, however, wasn’t really an identity struggle as much as it was an experience in displaced-working-classness (i.e. what the fuck do I do with these people who don’t know a damn thing about work?) Some of the people I went to school with had farms and they understood what physical labor meant. But they weren’t the farmers who grew food to live; they weren’t the farmers who worried about Walmart and Costco and not being able to compete with lettuce grown in a place they have never had any reason to look for on a map. My classmates had big farms but even bigger cushions to fall on if something went wrong. They had second houses in the city where they escaped to when it got too cold and complicated in the country.

What I really struggled with as a teenager was the combination of my sexual and my ethnic identity. When I came out as bi (back then, I didn’t have the consciousness or vocabulary to be able to come out as queer), I immediately felt the awkward stares from the vast majority of the students at Milton. Whatever. That didn’t matter. If you haven’t figured it out yet, I really enjoy making people feel uncomfortable. Yet I felt alienation from the other students of color and that mattered big time. Suddenly I was faced with a really fucked up question: How can I be happily Puerto Rican and happily enjoy women at the same time?

In college, this was not a problem. Hybridity was hot and I found myself at home in a community of queer folks of color. Yet in 2003, when I started to spend more time in Puerto Rico, I felt the absence of a proud queer identity, especially that of Puerto Rican women. Gay boys were everywhere to be found (well not everywhere but at least they were visible), yet the gay women remained under the radar. This I contributed to the presence of a fierce machismo that all but silenced the vocalization of an alternative female sexuality, one that had nothing to do with men. I mean, God forbid a woman gets off without the help of a dick!

Which is why it is dope to come back to Puerto Rico and see a full-fledged queer movement fucking shit up. This Thursday, Puerto Ricans from all over the island took part in the Paro Nacional. Organized by students, labor unions, and civic groups, including the umbrella organization, Todo Puerto Rico Por Puerto Rico, the national strike was a success because of the approximately 200,000 people that took to the streets. Generally speaking, the demonstration was designed to bring the economy to a standstill, as a way of protesting the recently passed Ley 7. In March, Governor Luís Fortuño announced his Fiscal and Economic Recovery Plan, also known as La Ley 7, as a means of reducing the island’s massive debt. The law led to the layoffs of about 8,000 government workers in May and 16,470 in September. Those layoffs will leave us with an unemployment rate of about 20% yet somehow Governor Fortuño thinks this piece of legislation will help stimulate the economy.

Perhaps the most problematic facet of the legislation is the fact that it gives the government the power to suspend any agreements established through the collective bargaining process, thereby taking power away from workers and placing it solely in the hands of those of the privileged ruling class. It also paves the way for the further privatization of government services since those jobs that are being eliminated in the public sector are now being redeveloped by private industries. For sure Puerto Rico has not seen the end of the destruction of La Ley 7. Hundreds of millions of dollars still have to be saved and that will probably mean that the Fortuño administration will attempt to layoff more workers.

What does this have to do with the burgeoning queer movement here in Puerto Rico? Everything! At the national strike on Thursday, I was pleasantly surprised by the presence of radical queers spray painting phrases like “Cambio de Sexo Legal y Gratuito,” “Dile No al Discrimen por Orientación Sexual,” and “Los Gays También Somos Obreros.” Thursday’s strike, and all the organizing that led up to it and will follow it, was not just a manifestation of class struggle. It was also an expression of the desire on the part of many different kinds of Puerto Ricans to take back Puerto Rico and redefine it in radical terms. And the government knows that. That’s why Marcos Rodríguez Ema, the Secretary of State, called those who participate in the protests “terrorists.” He said of workers’ threats to close Puerto Rico’s ports: “Ya esto se está tirando hacia una anarquía, hacia los sabotajes del pasado.” Rodríguez Ema is equating grassroots organizing with terrorism because he knows the power that that label holds. He is criminalizing the ordinary Puerto Rican, pissed off with the way shit is going down, calling us anti-Puerto Rican when really we are defending the Puerto Rico we want for the future: A Puerto Rico that doesn't give in to corporate interests; a Puerto Rico that is anti-racist, anti-homophobic, and pro-woman; a Puerto Rico where everyone has a job and can support themselves and their families. Terrorists? Really?

The police know it, too. The superintendent of police, José Figueroa Sancha, attempted to dismiss the actions of students who blocked one of San Juan’s major highways, el expreso las Américas, by saying, “[el grupo de estudiantes universitarios] no representa al estudiantado porque son unos pocos.” Additionally, he tried to paint those students not just as enemies of the police or the government but enemies of the entire country: “Estaban preparados para hacer daño a la Policía de Puerto Rico y a personas que estuviesen ajenas allí. Incluyendo la Prensa.” Of course activists are going to disagree on how to bring about change. Maybe not every student or every union leader would have laid down in the middle of a highway to protest a law that attacks people in a time of fiscal crisis instead of helps them. The bottom line is, however, that the students of the University of Puerto Rico have been organizing for quite some time against the privatization of the university and have placed their fight clearly within the working class struggle. To say that the students were “unos pocos” is to ignore the purposeful association between student activist groups, unions, and civic organizations.

But back to the queers…

It is significant to me that the queer community had such an active and militant presence at the march on Thursday because it made the struggle for queer rights part of the national struggle. Suddenly, just like every Puerto Rican has the right to a free and public education or the right to join a union, every queer Puerto Rican should have the right to adopt a child, marry whomever they wish, or identify with whatever gender they wish. On Thursday October 15, 2009, queer politics were put on the national agenda in a loud and visible manner and it was dope. On that day, activists proclaimed that being queer was just another way of being Puerto Rican.

My good friend and roommate, Leona, used the occasion of the national strike to make a statement about President of the Senate Thomas Rivera Schatz, gender, police brutality, la Ley 7, and the current state of Puerto Rican politics in general. Leona decided to protest while all dolled up in a military-green dress, a Hitler mustache, and a red armband with a swastika. Yes, it was shocking. No, I wasn’t completely comfortable with the image but yes, I totally supported the act of parody. She walked around proclaiming that she was wearing “one of Rivera Schatz’s uniforms!” For Leona, the act of vistiendose, of dressing up in drag, is intrinsically a form of protest. And a drag queen Hitler/Rivera Schatz, representing both the turn of the Puerto Rican government to the extreme right and the increase in violent acts committed by the Puerto Rican police...well that just brings that protest to another level, huh? Leona was just one representation of the growing visibility of Puerto Rican queerness at the general strike. I have a feeling that one day soon (very soon, keep your eyes peeled), Leona will be back and a hope that this is only the beginning of the inclusion of queer politics on the Puerto Rican activist scene.