A Collection of Spectacles

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I’ve probably posted more this month than I have in years. Procrastinating from homework right now. Did coke at 11 this morning and smoked a blunt. My epileptic music critic client has told me enough stories about using binges to finish work that I feel like this is ok.

I’m tired of sighing. I should have shut up and pitched myself as more demure. That’s where I always fuck up. I’m mean and come off as too slutty. Not like it even matters, but I have so much less sex than people think mainly because I hate how people treat me. It’s also really hard for me to be interested in people even though I’ll tolerate an admirer as a friend.  I mean, that overlap is impossible to avoid (I am naked on the Internet a lot) but I actually  experience romantic feelings rarely. I guess that’s everyone, though. I’m everyone, pretty much. Tired of begging for humanity.

I only think about fucking and dicking around after, laughing and feeling the spot where I got fucked after, I swear. I want to fuck all day then walk around talking about stupid shit so bad that I’m peppering vulgarity in every post as of late to where I’ll probably look back on these with embarrassment. I’m just fearful and avoidant. Excitement is frightening.

I’m so bad at making the ones I care about feel unique and special. If I look back on every serious romantic interest or partner (a small but unfortunate club) I realize I’ve ended up saying, “how could you think I never loved you? I’ve never done [x,y,z] for anyone else” at some point. I’m a terrible comic as well, making jokes about shit that makes the people special to me feel like they don’t matter, even when they’re all I think about.

How does someone learn to be tender?

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Been pretty sick the last few days. I’m making way less money than usual. I believe things will be fine, though. The world’s oldest profession has had a way of regrouping and paving new ways forward. Maybe augmented reality porn stars? Who knows? People love to get off but hate talking about it.

I feel more forgiving lately yet my attention is short at the same time, if that even makes sense. Second chances are fine, but a third strike is something I can’t handle or tolerate right now. K says I’ve been selfish, points to stuff I can’t even remember from years ago. Maybe I’ve been selfish before but it’s not a one way street and currently I’m trying to be more, I don’t know, based (for lack of a better word). Maybe it’s all too late, but we should figure it out soon.

How many ways can I say I want to be filled up, loaded, drenched, stuffed with cum? Fuck, when I’m not angry or depressed, I’m longing. Every minute seems steps farther away from what I desire. I just wanna pant and sigh and make little noises all day from under, then over you, stuck in a carved out universe of bliss.

Picking a “main partner” makes sense, but the jealousy that accompanies monogamy is absurd. I can make life long friends but love is always contentious. I hate this. It seems like I’m desired from afar but I can’t keep anything or anyone interested for long. Everyone I love turns into a series of ignored messages or unwanted outbursts. Like a little pig in filth, I’m constantly rolling around between violence, sex, and numbness.

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Maybe back together. Not really sure. I don’t reflect much, but maybe I should think back on my twenties. Maybe later.

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Everything’s gone to shit romantically. I don’t even care atm to be honest. I should, but I’m emotionally spent. Don’t know if it’s permanent, but K just broke up w me via Fb messenger. Modernity is wild. I’m probably best off by myself anyway at this point.

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I thought this blog’s ten year anniversary was a big deal. Now I’ll be 30 in two years, and I’m still crying about boys and how they’ve hurt me. Time hasn’t killed my optimism, though. Maybe that’s one good takeaway. That happens far too often with people my age.

There’s a bit of a chicken or egg thing when it comes to my sexual interest in rotten behavior, and my mistreatment by sexual partners. Actually, who am I kidding? I read De Sade at 13 while jerking off in my family’s computer chair. Still, I can’t figure out why every romantic interest treats me like shit at some point. I’ve started to assume it’s partially due to how dark I am, as unfortunate as that is. Everything I study confirms that racism, both outward and internalized, is more alive then we’d like to think. Maybe it’s a case in which I can see others transcribe these rotten historic lines upon me, a micropolitics of desire. I don’t really think about being black when I walk though the world, but I walk around in a world that puts far more (negative) importance on it than I’d like to think, and I have to remember that. All I know is I’ve gotten many apologies over the years.

I’d be lying if I said it didn’t foster some anger at times. I’ve had to work very hard to become ten times more talented than most, only to get recognized far less than I should.

*******

I’m heartbroken, if I’m to be honest. I’m feeling like I’m 16 again, upset I tailored a playlist just for it to be left unseen. Fuck. A sign that you care would be nice, even if you can’t send it directly.

 

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I may as well be honest. I don’t know if this will ever happen.

There were two scenarios. Both were to be done in one day at different times.

I’m sitting on top of him and moving around, getting his dick hard while I threaten him with a knife. I’m pushing on his throat. I look down and notice that his Adam’s apple touches the blade every time he swallows.

“You think I’ll really cut you?”

I’m running the sharp end along his chest, lightly. I sit in his lap and tell him if he doesn’t touch me here and here and here that I’ll actually do it as I press the knife between his legs.

I’m laying in his lap, legs spread wide. He teases me, rubbing a knife over the fabric of my underwear. He cuts it off. He keeps running the knife all along my pussy and when I get wet, he presses the blade to it, plays in the fluid. I cum thinking about him teaching me things I should know about my body but don’t because I’m too much like a child.

I overthink things endlessly, and I end up looking like a fool. I can’t help that I like the worst in people. It makes me wet. I can be very sweet and dutiful, though I can’t help but smirk when someone thinks I’m a cunt. When I edge, I think about you losing control and saying just come over let me fuck you. I wanna take turns threatening and fucking each other until we both get off. Deposit cum in me like a wet rag while I quiver.

There is an inexplicable relationship between violence and sex. We don’t think of either as art, but both have ties to a shocking form of beauty: the sublime.

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