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.

Spit or Swallow?

Dear Dude,
I am not, under any circumstances whatsoever, no matter how drunk, high, or horny I am, no matter how many pornographic movies I watch and wish to learn from, going to eat your cum. No, you can’t win me over with that shit. Don’t rub my knee, say “come on ma, just a little taste,” and try to tell me it doesn’t taste bad because you know what? I’ve tried it. And you know what else? It’s gross. Fucking nasty. Slimier than okra. With the consistency of watered-down mayonnaise. And the taste…ugh the taste. The taste is like one of those shitty pretzels you get at the mall, only thing shittier and more stale: sweet and salty—which is usually one of my favorite flavor combinations but not when it comes to this guys, not when it comes to this.
In a story that I recently wrote, I included the following memory. I’m going to include it here but don’t be mad when my book of short stories blows up and I’m more famous than Junot fucking Díaz and you realize that you’ve already read part of it; it’s only a little part anyway. Once when I was in eighth grade, this massive girl (massive, like a big, fat girl) named Janice came up to me and asked me the following question: SPIT OR SWALLOW? I hadn’t yet been presented with the opportunity to give head but I answered the best way I knew how to: I thought about it hard but only for like five seconds because I didn’t want her to know that I had to think about it. I wanted her to know that I knew. Spitting seemed awkward. Where to spit it? How to do it in a way that didn’t belie the high level of sexiness that of course I possessed at 14 years old? Swallowing seemed like the only logical answer. So I said, “uh, swallow?” And she said, “of course, right!?” and gave me a pound. Clearly I answered correctly and she marked my answer down in her Spanish notebook.

Since then, I’ve swallowed my fair share of SEE-MEN. I won’t say how much, mostly cuz I don’t know. But it’s not that much. But then again, what is a lot of cum to swallow in one’s lifetime? A cup? A gallon? A barrel? I do not wish to weigh myself against any porn star because, as we all know, porn is about excess—of course swallowing fifteen loads of cum at once is a lot but who does that on a regular basis? (Oh my God, you do? Wild.) And no one is ever going to say, “you know what, I’ve eaten so much cum in my life I have like a fucking 20 layer cumcake in stomach.” Ugh. So we’ll never really know how much cum the average person who likes to give head has swallowed. The point is, I’ve done it and I AM SO OVER IT, papa. Been there, done that. Hated it. I mean, a little.

But you know what, mi amor, I’d much rather swig your stale pretzel, liquid mayonnaise load then eat your semen when it tastes like fucking “Hard Apple.” WTF? Apparently, these supplements, called Sweet Release (the play on words alone makes me want to vomit), claim to naturally “enhance” the taste of your jiz. I hate that. Wanna know why? Of course you do, here’s why:

1. It further alienates us from the natural state of our bodies. Raise your hand if you’ve tasted your own cum. If you didn’t raise your hand, run to the nearest bathroom and jerk off right now. Do what you must to get yourself turned on but you have to bust a nut right now and taste it. I’ll give you a few minutes. (...Twiddle my fingers, whistle a tune...) Are you back? Good. What’d it taste like? You liked it, didn’t you, you nasty freak? The taste of cum is not the best in the world but I was exaggerating a bit before; it’s not the worst thing ever. It’s certainly not worse than okra. But there is a certain deliciousness in knowing that that flavor comes from our bodies. If it’s not delicious then that’s probably because you’re not eating delicious things (see # 3). We should know what our bodies smell like, taste like, and look like when they are healthy. If we don’t, how are we going to know if something has gone wrong and we have to fix it?
2. It supports our awful addiction to all things artificial and makes us believe that the natural taste of our bodies is bad. The really shitty thing is that as I am writing this I am drinking a Diet Coke—God, I hate myself—but no one’s perfect right? So, if you haven’t noticed it on my profile, I live in San Juan, Puerto Rico. One of the things one notices immediately about Puerto Rico—that is, if s/he has even the weakest critical thinking skills—is how awful our diet is. I’m not talking about all the malanga, ñame, and yuca we eat. The Taínos survived for centuries on that shit. Remember, it wasn’t heart disease or Type 2 diabetes that killed the Taínos. It was colonization and its concomitant massacres and small pox plagues (Rule #1 for people of color: never EVER accept a blanket from a European). I’m also not talking about the irresistible 2:30am empanadilla de pizza that one must eat after a long night of drinking. No, I’m talking about the fact that Puerto Rico’s land is more fucking fertile than the octomom after her “treatments” but yet its people don’t eat what naturally comes from the land. Puerto Ricans eat fast food, pre-packaged food, and frozen food con cojones even though everything we need to survive and be healthy is at our fingertips. As a people, Puerto Ricans are alienated from nature and the food it brings us. Puerto Ricans prefer Yellow #5 to bananas, partially hydrogenated soybean oil to beans, mono- and diglycerides to rice, sour apple flavored cum to cum flavored cum. Clearly, I understand the relationship between US colonialism and the ubiquitousness of fast food chains and pre-processed foods and how those foods are generally cheaper than buying the products that are grown here. I could write about that shit too. But what concerns me in this article is how that addiction to artificialness has turned into a scorn for things natural. I think that is connected to our desire to scorn the natural state of our bodies, including our natural taste. What tastes natural is bad but Hard Apple is good. What the fuck is Hard Apple anyway? There is no such apple that is called the Hard Apple. But I guess if Sweet Release gave the pill a Granny Smith Apple flavor that wouldn’t be sexy.
3. It is a quick fix that teaches us nothing about the value of nutrition to a healthy state of sexual being. Wanna know a secret? Come closer, closer, yes, let me sit on your lap. Now listen up: some leche already tastes better than others, naturally. It’s true. For instance, I’m sure if I swallowed the cum of the guy who I’m seeing now, a vegetarian, it would taste a lot better than the leche of say, the sweaty, fat fuck two cubicles down from me in the library. I have nothing against sweaty, fat fucks but don’t ask me to drink your Sweet-and-Sour Shrimp-Snickers sperm ever, like, EVER. Certain foods are known to naturally enhance the taste of your jiz and guess what, they’re the same foods that are known to be really good for you in general. Most important is water; drink lots of it to rid your body of toxins that can potentially wind up in your cum. After that try some of these: papaya, mango, grapes, melons, parsley, celery, cinnamon, peppermint, pineapple and lemon. They’re never going to make your cum taste fruity and fresh but these foods have been known to make your cum a little sweeter. On the other hand, there are foods that one should avoid if he wants better tasting spooge. Red meat, dairy, broccoli, onions, garlic, cauliflower, and asparagus are the biggest offenders. Red meat and dairy are especially known to make your ejaculate more salty—that’s exactly what we DON’T want, guys. If we rely on pills like Sweet Release to make our cum taste good then we are cheating ourselves out of the knowledge of how to make ourselves more healthy. It’s like not showering but using cologne and expecting it to cover the smell of your B.O. Soon all your going to smell is your cologne and you’ll never really know that you smell like shit.
   

In closing, dudes, yes alright fine, I’ll swallow. But not under all circumstances and not just any leche. Like, I’ve decided that I really have to know you in order to swallow. It’s definitely NOT a sex-on-the-first-date thing, or even the second or third. It’s more like our first-STI-test-came-out-negative-and-let’s-celebrate thing. Y tú me tienes que mamar bien rico antes. Si no, pueh…sorry, you’re out of luck. And so let’s say I like you and you’re a great, big pussy worshipper, I still won’t drink your cum if you have poor hygiene and/or eating habits. And let’s say I like you and you’re a great, big pussy worshipper and I happen to be convinced that I should swallow (which, may I remind you, has nothing to do with your skills of persuasion and you should NEVER EVER ask me to swallow cuz if you do I’ll fuck you up; it’s MY decision, okay?). And if I swallow and it tastes like “Hard Apple,” I’m gonna be really pissed because you would have adulterated my palate with your phony phallic ejaculate. Keep it natural, keep it healthy and if you’re nice to me and smart and funny and good in bed, oh yeah, I’ll lick it up without question.

Love,
Lola

Bend Over, Boo; It's Your Turn (Verse 3)

God for-fucking-bid, a dude gives up some of his power. Okay, I get it, you have a dick and, if we’re going to define sex as penetration, then your dick needs to be hard for us to be able to start. And, alright alright, I also get that you essentially get to decide when the shit is over, too. And pa’ colmo, even though this has nothing to do with sex, you get to pee wherever the fuck you want. Dudes, alright, your dicks are pretty cool. But you know what, motherfuckers? I get to cum as many times as I want. So when you get off and I’m not done and I think I wanna bust a nut just one more time, I’m gonna masturbate, right in your face and stick my tongue out at you as I do it, just to rub it in your sweaty face. Wait…you want me to rub it in your face?

Sorry. The point is that dudes think that just because they have the dicks they get to do the penetrating, they get to have all the power. Uh uh. No fucking way. That’s fucked up for the following reasons:

1. It’s based on the stupid, archaic belief that there can only be sex with penetration, which is why foreplay only counts as “calentando” and dummies always ask lesbians how they have sex.
2. It makes the penetrator the powerful, masculine role and the penetrated the weak, feminine role. This breaking down of sex into gender roles is limiting, not fun, and totally UN-sexy.
3. If we reduce sex to penetration, then we are essentially equating sex with procreation. And therefore we are delegitimizing not just anal sex but other kinds of queer sex as well.

WTF, dudes! Give it up and bend over cuz here is my finger and it’s coming straight for your ass. Okay, okay, okay…Let’s just forget about the power dynamics involved in anal sex for a moment and think about pleasure pure and simple. Hombres, if I told you that I could give you something that would make you feel so pleasurable, you’d cum almost instantly and it’s not heroin, crack, or some weird substance that will make mushrooms sprout from your back, wouldn’t you say “dale! Let’s do it!”? Of course you would. You’re not stupid, are you? Well that’s what anal sex is.

Clearly the real banal sex queens out there are dudes, so concerned about preserving their masculinity, that they have created a cage for themselves. And not some kind of sexy cage like in wrestling matches or that absurd Shakira video but like one of those cages in which they put baby cows to fatten them up to turn them into osso buco. You can’t move, you’ve paralyzed yourselves with your own masculinity and now all you can have is boring, banal sex. Considera las palabras de Anabel Ochoa, sexóloga, psicóloga, y escritora española: “entre varones, en el hombre que es penetrado supone impactar directamente la estimulación de la próstata (el llamado punto G masculino [I didn’t know y’all had one of those too!]) de modo que provoca una eyaculación automática en escopeta casi sin quererlo por automatismo de esta glándula.”

!!!

An orgasm so hard and intense, you can’t control it when your prostate is poked just a little?! Word?! That’s the dopest shit I’ve read in a while, like since I read Milan Kundera’s thoughts on poo. Come on guys, you know you wanna try it.

However (sigh), I understand the strength of social roles. I also understand that masculinity is nothing if not a performance. And for a straight dude, getting it up the butt is not part of that play. But remember, gender identity was not created to make us feel more free. In fact, gender norms only serve to limit our possibilities by making us fearful of breaking them. The gender police suck and we shouldn’t listen to them. Since when should we take advice on how to have fun from a fucking cop? When was the last time you looked at a cop and wanted to ask him/her where the party was? Never. That never fucking happens. So why are you letting some invisible force police your goddamn gender when you could be having some dope sex right now?

If there is anything that I hope for my readers to get out of this (very long) manifesto on anal sex, and indeed my blog in general, it is that good sex requires a lot of trust. And I am not just talking about trust between you and your partner but trust in oneself. I have to love myself enough to trust that my desires are valid, important, and deserve to be fulfilled by someone who respects me and finds it is sexy and beautiful that I am a human being with desires. As I said in Verse 1, if I can’t talk to my partner, I shouldn’t be having sex with that person. Okay, okay…God knows I have had my share of random sex and I will probably have a few more (hopefully not too) awkward sexual encounters with someone who doesn’t know me—or care about me, for that matter. But those are not going to be the times when I divulge how to really turn my ass out.

Lola’s 10 Point Program to Having Great Anal Sex:

Here it is. Print this shit out and put it on your refrigerator, yeah your refrigerator, because you should definitely be having butt sex in the kitchen.

On behalf of all people who wish to liberate themselves from the shackles of sexual banality and enjoy the pleasures of anal penetration, I declare the following:

1. We deserve to find someone chill and made up of at least 75% wonderfulness. The other 25% cannot be assholeness but it can be awkwardness, bad dancing skills, or a random sense of humor. This ratio assures that you can always talk to your partner about having to maybe deal with shit and that they will listen if you have to tell them to stop if you no longer feel comfortable.
2. We will use lube so as to not tear our rectums. I can’t emphasize enough how important this is. It’s really hot if you have a vagina and you’re already so wet that you can just transfer some of that natural lube to your ass but if that can’t happen then you definitely need to make sure that you have some lube on hand—and I mean real lube not lotion, especially not if it’s perfumed; our assholes are sensitive and you don’t want to put some harsh frangrance or chemical up there.
3. We will practice breathing exercises. We all know how important breathing is to achieving orgasm. Don’t we all hold our breath when we feel it there, right there? And when we need to relax, aren’t we told to “take a deep breath”? Well lets put these two together and we can make sure that anal sex always feels good. The last time I had anal sex, there was this moment in which it started to feel a little uncomfortable, then I breathed in deeply and found that I could take his entire penis in my ass. And I totally got off and he did too and it was fucking glorious.
4. We will try to poop before and clean up. Just because you have to face the reality that you might encounter poop if you’re sticking something up your ass doesn’t mean that you have to expect it or swim in it when you’re fucking. Nah, try to let it all out before you expect to have sex and make sure the area is as clean as possible. You should also make sure to clean up afterward. There are gross things that live in poop and those gross things can give you gross things. Yuck. You could even take a shower together after; I love that!
   
5. We will use condoms. It turns out that our bums are like sponges and are more susceptible to sexually transmitted infections than other areas of our bodies. Unless you and your partner have both tested negative and have both made the (sober) decision to not use condoms, don’t risk it. Wrap it up, kiddies.
6. We will make sure everything is stimulated. The very talented among us are capable of getting off just through anal penetration. Many of us, however, need some extra help. Here is where I good toy comes in handy because the best is when I can be penetrated both anally and vaginally (damn, I sure am an open book, huh?). Play with my clitoris; that’s always awesome. But be forewarned, that’s how Becky uh, lost control.
7. We will always make sure to give and receive. It’s always best this way. To get anally penetrated is awesome but it’s also great to know that you are giving someone one of the best sexual sensations of their lives. Besides nobody likes a sapo in bed; you know, someone who just lies there como un sapo while the other person does all the work.
8. We want you to play with and tease our culos first. Remember? SUA-VE-CI-TO. Teasing doesn’t just heighten the dopeness that is sex, it also serves the very practical purpose of getting us ready for it. By playing with the anus before actually penetrating it, you can make your partner relax as well as want it more. This is especially true for those who are new to anal sex. Use a pinky, a tongue, some nice vibrating anal beads (oh yeah, they make those. Anyone, wanna buy me a Christmas present?), whatever; just make your partner want it.
9. We want the lines of communication open. Before, during, and after anal sex. Before: talk about poop and about your desires. During: do you like it? Was one position better than another? Does it hurt too much and you want to stop? After: What did you like/dislike? What do you want to try next? ¡Habla, coño!
10. We recognize the political, social, and emotional implications of what we’re doing and feel awesome about fucking outside of the box. The supreme level of relationship incredibleness is not reached simply by having great sex. It’s when you can have great sex with someone who thinks about what that great sex means. I love it, love it, love it when I can fuck someone’s brains out while saying “fuck it” to the world and “fuck you” to my insecurities.

Well, there it is darlings. I hope you have learned something or at least feel more vindicated in your desires. If this post gets just one person to love anal sex, I know I have done my job. And if you're that person, please let me know so I can die in about 100 years knowing that I truly am an agent of change.