Who would have guessed that Dating Services would become a multibillion dollar a year industry? Nowadays we’re more desperate for love and companionship than ever before and with the Internet Revolution in full swing, finding a date is as easy as downloading an app and swiping right. Sadly, the dating ground is a mind-fuck of a mess littered with fuckboys, entitled men, and worse of all – insecure man child’s who need a submissive woman for validation. What’s a girl to do to get some good dick, companionship, and possibly find love? I’ve come to the conclusion that dating older men is a great way to avoid all the bullshit that is modern day dating. Here are 5 reasons why you should date an older man.
The media is hyper-focused on creating fear, uncertainty, and doubt about what Brett Kavanaugh’s appointment could mean for Roe v. Wade and abortion rights. According to their narrative, women are fucked.
What about instead of putting things in the hands of one white man, we as women take our pussies out of reach for all men until we have full autonomy over our reproductive health? Continue reading “Pussy v. The Supreme Court”
He loved to feed me while feasting on me. I remember he ordered my favorite bacon and pineapple four corner pizza and invited me over for dinner. Upon entering his I noticed the table was prepared for me. There was a napkin, a wine glass, a bottle of my favorite wine, a packed bowl, and a lighter on the table. Of course I chose bud over wine. He took his best leather couch, a green one, out to the balcony for me to sit on while I inhaled my joy.
I came back inside furiously hungry and he knew it. He told me, “you can sit on that seat if it’s more comfortable.” It was. So he brought the box over to me and I picked out two corner slices. The first bite was glorious. He sat on the floor beneath me looking up as I tore into it.
I hadn’t fucked him in a while because the new relationship energy was dying. I felt virtually no excitement for him, and his tongue that had felt so good before was now losing to my flesh-like toys and uberlube at home. Before I knew it he was kissing up my calves then up my thigh, raising my dress to reach my pussy. It was not wet. He motioned for me to lift my hips so he could pull my panties down. I told him “I just wanna eat”
He backed off a little but not for long. Soon he was trying to eat me again. This time pulling my panties to the side and shoving his head in my lap to get to my clit. I did not move to accept him. I was pretty focused on the pizza and he was truly beginning to annoy me.
That night, the only meat I let inside me was pizza topping. It wasn’t immediately noticeable to me in the moment that his plan was to try to seduce me by buying my favorite food, with my favorite loud, and my favorite wine, then giving me head in hopes that all those things would make me more receptive to his cock. He tried it with plenty of my other favorites. He would always ask what my favorite dish was at such and such restaurant and then magically be there when I was at work, otherwise occupied, or simply refused to see him. Then he would send me pictures of the things I loved saying “wish you were here.”
In the beginning I thought it was sweet but couldn’t help thinking, “why doesn’t he have tastes of his own? Why is it always only the things he knows I like that he ends up getting?” It got old really quick, and kind of creepy now that I look back. Little did I know, this was all some sort of strategy of association. Pairing his presence with the things I liked to make it seem like I must like him too since he’s surrounded by my favorite things.
Well that strategy did not work. It pissed me off more than anything. Thankfully, my disgust for him didn’t translate to disgust for those food items. I was asking my new man about what pizza he likes and this memory of the Fraud I was Fucking came to mind. My favorite thing about my new man is that he has a personality. He has his own likes and dislikes, and though he will compromise to accommodate me, he is truly authentic in his expression of self. My second favorite thing about him is how hard he makes me cum after getting my consent to play with my pussy.
I’m very new to butt play, and for me it’s kind of like learning a new language. I’m not perfect at distinguishing what feels good or isolating specifics when something is inside me. But what I do know is I very much enjoy sensations on top of sensations, the more the better.
My DP experience included a teeny tiny plug slightly thicker than a skinny tooth brush, but in the flesh-like material that is very adaptable to my body. It was that in my ass, a finger in my pussy, and a vibrator on my clit that created this new world of sensations for me.
With the toy alone in my ass, I almost feel dizzy. I can feel it but I can’t localize it like I can with something in my pussy. It’s hard to take by itself because my body struggles between wanting to push it out and relaxing to take more in. But with the other stimulation in place, my body is too distracted by all the pleasure to clench up and focus on fear.
So it’s easy for pleasure waves to transfer to the ass and make it feel more pleasurable too. Eventually it felt so good that I could keep plug in without a problem. And that’s when it happened, something that I’ve seen in films but never thought I would experience myself — the double penetration.
I was face down with my back arched and ass tilted towards him. With the plug in place and snug, he took out his finger and inserted his cock. I felt so full. He started to move in and out, nudging the toy with his cock with each motion. It was immense, the sensation of him and something else inside me. Small as it was, it was very noticeable and quite often I felt like I was so close to coming that I’d fucking explode. For me, DP was like extended edge play, an exquisite experience.
Forecasting my future, I told him “I don’t want kids. My work will be my legacy. My company will be my ba—”
“Fall in love with your customers, not your company!” Before I finished he began.
He went on and on for fucking ever about how you can’t get too attached to your work, how companies fail all the time, the ways one must prepare to start over, and some Chinese man named Jack who he had a failed startup with.
What’s the fucking point though?
I often wonder what it’s like to be that self-centered, so fond of the sound of one’s own voice. Does he even hear it anymore, the shit he stinks my ears with? He spoke so long that I grew exhausted. Too tired to explain the argument I’d originally harbored. Subconsciously though, I refused to let him win.
“Why” I said softly, “why do companies fail?” I had to speak with a hint of suspense and seductiveness to keep him quiet. “Companies fall flat or get knocked off. Companies are bought or sold, or in some other form, restructured or dismantled entirely. Companies don’t crumble because the founder loved them too much.”
“But a company is just a name, an idea. The customers make the company. When it falls they stand.” He was wound up. It’s like the more ideas I presented, the more he made it his mission to convert me. Like fucking me wouldn’t be as good until he tamed my thoughts.
Of course I had words, seductive words. “You’re right.” I knew his dick would twitch to that. “It’s just a name and an idea. Proof of concept comes from generating interest. It comes when customers believe in the brand, the product, and the people – you. They must fall in love with you too for the the business to work.”
I could see the words forming by the roll of his tongue, so I lifted my hand.
“Let me ask you this, how easy is it for you to fall for someone who isn’t invested in anything?” He scratched his chin. I didn’t give him the opportunity to answer.
“Personally, I’m usually the target of more romantic attention when I have a lover. It’s like people see the joy I wear and want to peel my clothes off more from that than from whatever the hell my single self was emitting. So falling in love with the customers is useless if they can’t see how enamored you are with your business.”
Until the conversation above, I was blind to the beast in my bed. My lover was a faux physicist and a wantrepreneur. It wasn’t until I got into specifics about building a business with him that I figured out he was a fraud. He presented himself as a modern day Nikola Tesla, a victim of his industry, but the truth is he was nothing more than a less eloquent version of Ellsworth Toohey.
•Art by Shaza.Wajjokh•
I pride myself on being a particularly sexual person. An adventurer, a group sex lover, and an agile performer who gets wet at the thought of outdoor sex where other people might see me. The only hang up I have around sex is when a male partner wants me to call him Daddy.
I was being blissfully fingered and getting my toes sucked with a powerful vibrator on my clit one night. I couldn’t separate myself from my body, pleasure ran through me connecting flesh to thought. He could tell I was close by the waves of my hips and the tightening of my pussy. He took my toes out his mouth and said,
“Are you gonna cum? Are you gonna cum for Daddy?” It was hot but it also kind of slowed down my momentum.
I said, “Yes” all heavy breathy, still pleasure fueled. He went on to say, “Tell me, tell me you’re gonna cum for Daddy” to which I replied, “I’m gonna come for you” and put my foot back in his mouth.
Logically I know there’s no difference between calling someone baby or Daddy.
I call people baby all the time, so why the uneasiness with Daddy? Upon careful consideration and reflection, I came to the conclusion that since I’ve never called my real father “Daddy” for some reason it feels wrong to call any other man that. Maybe some part of my twenty-something year old self is still holding out hope that I will call him that one day.
But it’s just a freaking word! And I’m a writer, supposedly a master of words, so why is this one so heavy on my tongue? That night, I did not call my lover Daddy, nor did I do it in the following weeks.
When and where I finally did it was a couple months later at a nudist/swingers resort called Hedonism II in Jamaica…
*Artwork by Instaphazed*
In a culture of overconsumption where you’re constantly the target of ads being slung at you like piss in prison, Minimalism seems to be the perfect antidote for quelling our consumptive urges. But is Minimalism a realistic end, or just a fantasy that grips our attention until we buy into the next best thing? The Minimalist documentary and The Life Changing Magic of Tidying Up book seemed like good places to find answers.
Minimalism aims to declutter your surroundings by providing you with a simpler, more manageable lifestyle centered on just the important things, the things that spark joy. Josh Millburn and Ryan Nicodemus are the men behind The Minimalist documentary. In the film, they tour the country to share how minimizing transformed their lives. Speaking events started slow, but they always seemed personal and intimate. One guy always got a hug from the audience, even if he couldn’t answer all their questions. You got a true sense of a community being developed. But just as I was gaining respect for them, they wrapped their tour by going on the Today Show. They had been selling me on their idea the whole time, but it wasn’t until that Today appearance that a red flag came up.
To end on the Today Show where their book, if purchased, would most likely be placed on a shelf and never thought of again seemed so out of whack with the whole premise of minimalism. Surely they knew that consumers who watch that program for the best holiday deals and which celebrity wore it best had no vested interest in minimizing their consumption. In fact, that audience was the holy grail of consumerism. That’s when it hit me – these guys want to make money. They don’t care who buys their book or if the message ever lands. All that matters to them is sell, sell, sell. And it just so happened that the current item they’re selling is about reducing what you have. That’s an easy sell because it feels necessary. It feels like they’re doing you a service. But it’s not. It’s just a buttoned up, newly packaged form of capitalism.
Another simplify-your-life device that has caused me grief is Marie Kondo’s Life Changing Magic of Tidying Up. This book instructed me to place everything I own in a pile on the floor and discard all of the items that bring no joy. Now, don’t think I’m crazy for getting rid of my things – I needed to organize my closet and this was a shortcut. The idea of keeping only the things that “spark joy” really appealed to me. I mean, who wouldn’t want a closet full of things they love? The trouble I ran into, is most of my clothes didn’t inspire happiness or excitement. They were without sentient.
Fast forward a couple weeks and I have extra hangers, fewer shorts to sleep in, virtually no old tee shirts, and no slutty black dresses to wear under baggy button up shirts with knee high socks. What have I done?! So the life changing magic of tidying up actually left me without essentials… which meant I had to go shopping to replace them. A year after “tidying up” I’m still in the consumer cycle needing to purchase more things to feel like my wardrobe is complete.
For many people entrenched in consumerism, minimalism is not a cure for the disease, rather a restart button to induct them in the cycle of consuming all over again. This is evidenced by the fact that minimalists specifically target mindless consumers to consume their minimization techniques. Some may have good intentions, or more accurately may have started out with good intentions, but after getting a taste of how much they can make off consumers, they change their tone quickly to be in tune with the very corporations they’re persuading you not to buy into.