This may slightly contradict my comment on Choosing Pancakes’s post the other day, but I still think that good in bed is a valid concept–just that it does not necessarily refer to the physical aspects of being in bed directly.
Sex is not a goddamn performance. Sex should feel as natural as drinking water. It should not require confidence. Sex should happen, because the moment is ripe. Ripening lips, ripening labia, ripening cock, ripening pupils, ripening state of being. Ripe and augmented and brimming. Your energy goes to your pumping heart, then to every external nerve, then to theirs, on fire. You bask, roll, play in it. You sigh, moan, laugh. It’s not about being “good in bed”. It’s about being happy. One should never worry if they’re doing it “correctly.” Sex is not factual. I don’t want your cookie-cutter sex, I don’t want your meticulously crafted, calculated, fool-proof fuck. I don’t want a show. I want you. Let your instincts, urges and whims define that. It’s enough. What do most girls like? Forget about it. Statistics are meaningless when there’s only one. Hello, here’s me. Here’s you. Don’t worry about taking it too slow. We got time. We got infinite rhythms, combinations, possibilities. Explore each fuck. Take our time. We can do a different one later. Don’t worry about making me come. I’m here. Right where I want to be. I am overwhelmed by wanting; you don’t have to convince me. I want you because I like you. So don’t put on a front. Don’t taint this. I’m frustrated—it’s just authenticity I want. It’s originality. It’s passion. It’s joy. Don’t say that something I like is ugly. Don’t compare yourself to the rest. You will live and die with and within your experiences like everyone else. If someone thinks you are amazing, they are not wrong. Their universe is as real as any other; it is forged through perception. I don’t care if you accidentally slammed my head into the wall, if you slipped out, if my arm cracked, if the delightful pressure of your wet lips on my anything made a silly sound. There is no right way and no wrong way. “Good in bed,” what. You’re good in my bed. I’m pleased you’re there. I feel it suits you.
Shove your technique. Let your memory swallow it. Fuck me like you’d fuck me, fuck me like you feel.This isn’t a test.
Towards the bottom, I feel like she was losing agency, and I don’t feel like technique needs to be thrown out the window from the get-go. Maybe what has been pleasurable to other girls will be pleasurable to me. Maybe it won’t. Try it–I’ll tell you.
but I came across this a few minutes ago on Peace, Love, and Pretty Things, and I had to vehemently disagree.
I want to dwell in action. In experience. In the moments themselves, rather than in hoping for chances of them.
It’s called The Unwritten Rules (that’s a link to the first episode), and it’s about this Black female Brown graduate who starts at a new job where she’s the only Black girl. In fact, only Black person. In fact, only person of (visible) color.
I don’t know if I’ve made it clear on here that, while I’m far from the only one, I’m one of few in my workplace of 300+. That becomes one of very few if you discount the secretarial staff, Copy Room and Mail Room employees, security staff, etc. I’m both the only Black person under age 30 and the only Black female in my division.
And I mean, those of you who have a good understanding of my history know that being a rarity is far from unusual for me, which is probably why I haven’t really mentioned it. I’ve made fast fantastic friends at work–the young people in my division and recent hires in other divisions are seriously awesome people, and they’re just one part of what makes my job le awesomest.
I get compliments on my various hairstyles, but no one has ever asked to touch my hair. I’ve never eaten Black ethnic food at work (when RG’s mom gave me leftover fried chicken, plantains, and chilli, I decided to bring the chilli to work and eat the chicken and plantains at home, lol), so all of my “Mmm that smells good” instances aren’t particularly egregious for any reason. I’m sure that once it gets colder and I start making mac and cheese, that’s gonna get some attention, though. And my Nana’s pies? PLEASE. The episode that really got me, though, is number 5, in which Racey (yes her name is Racey, which I just adore) tries and fails to bond with the other Black people who work in her building (in security and at the front desk, while she’s some sort of manager). Their playing of dominoes (which I didn’t learn were a Black thing until recently, actually) and her eating of asparagus don’t really mix well…
I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t noticed that I haven’t really become close to any other Black people at work (though that’s starting to change with the guy closest to my age in my division). Granted, most of them are considerably older than me, but still something seems…off. When I see a Black person I don’t recognize at work, I will go out of my way to introduce myself to her. Like on campus, I don’t pass a Black person in the office without acknowledging him or her in some way. But it occurred to me that I only know the name of about four Black people outside of my division. I know the others by face, know them enough to wave and ask how their weekends were, but I do not substantively know them in any way. There are small clusters of Black employees who regularly eat lunch together, and I don’t eat with them. Granted, I’ve never been invited. But on the other hand, I’ve never asked either.
I want to make more legitimate attempts at forming friendly acquaintanceships with other Black people in my office. Like, the next time I see a cluster eating or chatting, instead of just waving as I walk by, I’m going to wander over and chat for a little while. #babystepstonotfeelingliketheonlypocinmydailyworld
|Reblogged from Serenity in Perspective|
The planet does not need more ‘successful’ people. But it does desperately need more peacemakers, healers, restorers, storytellers, and lovers of every shape and form. It needs people who live well in their places. It needs people of moral courage willing to join the fight to make the world habitable and humane. And these needs have little to do with success as our culture has defined it.
SORRY GUYS. I’M PRO-BLACK GIRL. I’M NOT ANTI-WHITE GIRL, BUT I’M ALSO NOT HERE FOR ANYONE OUTSIDE OF MY CULTURE TRYING TO TRIVIALIZE SERIOUS ASPECTS OF IT. IN ANY CAPACITY.
|The artist’s name is Richard Schmid.
Reblogged from 18° 15′ N, 77° 30′ W
I want this.
These people are in half-drag. Gender is such a performance.
Synonyms “mad,” “upset,” “pissed the fuck off.” I’ve been thinking about these words as parts of my personal political vocabulary. I’ve been thinking about them in relationship to how everything prominent members of the Republican party say makes me feel. I’ve been thinking about them in relationship to the tears that fell from my eyes on the Red Line Wednesday while I read the introduction to Professor Perry’s Sister Citizen, reliving the disgust and bitterness at the total lack of regard for poor Black American lives in the days before and after Hurricane Katrina. I’ve been thinking about them in relationship to how I felt about myself when I got an email last night from Change.org commemorating the one-year anniversary of Troy Davis’s death and I momentarily could not remember who Troy Davis was.
I don’t think angry fits. I don’t find mad to be an appropriate expression of what I feel about these things. Upset is too paltry a word to encompass what I mean. Pissed off does too much work separating the meaning from the message.
I’m not angry. I’m outraged.
Let us presume for a moment that the opposite of outrage must be in-rage. In-rage is seething, festering, the-world-doesn’t-give-a-fuck-about-me-so-I-don’t-give-a-fuck-about-the-world rage. In-rage is starting to believe the lies the world tells you about yourself. In-rage is internalized racism, sexism, classism, homophobia, transphobia, ableism, fatphobia, ad infinitum. In-rage is fighting to fight instead of fighting the good fight. In-rage is the self-esteem issues of a whole people. In-rage is living in the now because you have no reason to believe in next year, or 25, or 40, as a reality which you will attain. In-rage can be bloody and violent. It can be quiet and cold. It can be fast, a million things all at once that don’t make sense together or apart. It can tear a person, a people, asunder.
I refuse to be overtaken by in-rage. I refuse to soak up all of the world’s bullshit like a sponge and just carry it around, being heavy for the sake of being heavy. I deserve to be full of better things than these. So, I will exist in the world. And existing in this world means yeah, racism and sexism and classism and heteronormativity and you’re-not-like-me-so-you’re-wrong-ism will be flung at me from every imaginable angle, sopping wet and eager to soak me. I am porous, so not only will I be coated and covered by these things, but I will take them in. I have no choice. But when it becomes too much, when I am oversaturated by everything wrong with the world, I can make a beautiful choice. I can wring myself dry. Expel these things from the depths of me, wholly and irrevocably changed. I will expose them for what they are, spread their innards across these pages so that I can know my own. This wringing is outrage. It can be violent. It can be loud. It can come off as harsh or even militant. Those who don’t know might even call it angry.