You're Safe With Me

They say good sex is safe sex.

If that’s the case, why are so many men trying to hit it raw?

So ultimately, a woman can only infer that good sex can never really be safe...

I Only Prefer Raw Meat In My Sushi

One night I invited this dude over to eat my pussy.  Eating was the only thing discussed and to my understanding the only thing that would go down.

He agreed.  Came over, rocked my world, and was done.

Well at least I was done.

I happened to look down at dude to check if he was still breathing.

He was breathing alright, and on that verge of inserting his dick into my pussy.

I was appalled.  Not at the fact that he was going to fuck me, but that he had NOT placed a condom on his thick, erect penis.

I freaked.  I flipped.  I fucking lost it.

I shoved him off the bed.  Told him to put that dangerous weapon away.  Demanded he get the fuck out of my apartment.  And asked how dare he put my life in danger.

He just stood there completely silent with his dick in his left hand. 

Needless to say, I never called him again. 

He was ubberly pissed and told some of his bruhs that he had fucked me. 

The rumor didn’t phase me because I knew the truth, but his disdain for using prophylactic did.

My pussy was on indefinite clank-clank after that experience.

Dude was a well-known midnight muncher.  He was also a notorious slut whore.  So for him to try and fuck me raw and possibly end my life made absolutely no sense.

Time passed and we finally discussed what really went down.  He apologized for the rumor.  Claimed he never told his roommate we fucked.  His only defense for not using protection was that having his baby wouldn’t be the end of my world.

Ignorant ass.  Catching a virus from your loose dick would have.

All dude had to do was put a Magnum on or simply ask me, “Fran, do you mind if I insert my unprotected dick into your pussy and possibly infect you with Chlamydia or HIV?”

I would have respectfully declined, but at least have been given a choice.

He took away my right to choose that night, and for that I despise him.

I'm no condom saint myself.  I’ve had unprotected sex with two men.  I was in a committed relationship with each and used the excuse of “We’ll be together forever” to disguise the fact that what I was doing was risky.

One was allergic to latex, or so he claimed.  The other one was a virgin; yet hated the feeling of condoms.  Go figure.

I’m not even going to lie.  I hate condoms.  I hate the time it takes to put them on.  I hate the way they feel.  I hate buying them.  I just hate them.

But catching an orgasm is not worth catching something that requires antibiotics or a lifetime cocktail of various pills.

So as BET always preaches: Rap it up!

An Acquired Taste

Deondre used to fantasize about cumming on my glasses.  My Versace glasses.

I’m not a prude but cum on my face is unacceptable, and cum on my designer frames is a crime!

I tried to consider his fantasy but couldn’t get past the actual cum on my face and glasses premise.

I instead opted to swallow.  He was surprised yet enthused. 

Surprised that I actually swallowed. 

Surprised that I admitted to swallowing. 

Surprised that I’d chosen swallowing over washing my face and glasses after oral sex.

To me it was a no brainer.  I figured the act of me swallowing would prevent him from having or even desiring to cum on my face.  Plus what’s the point of going that far to only make a man pull out and use a towel, or in Deondre’s case my forehead and upper eyelids.

I’ve always promoted swallowing. 

It just makes sense.  His dick is already in your mouth (hope you ladies don’t leave the balls out, they are a must).  You’ve almost gagged several times attempting to impress him with your deep throat skills.  Your nose is running, your jaw hurts, and your knees burn. 

So obviously the next step involves giving him the pleasure of getting the cum sucked out of his dick and swallowed.

Not spat into a nearby napkin.

Swallowed (and do not cringe at the taste).

Typing it, even verbally acknowledging the act used to prove difficult for me in my younger days.  But now I don’t care to admit that I suck dick and when I do, I practice safe swallowing.

Some women are probably cringing at my admission.  But honestly, if the roles were reversed would women want a man to stop once we lock our finger into his skull and press his head deeper into our pussy?  No.

We would flip if a man got up to wash his face as we began to cum.

We would scream, “Negro, where the fuck are you going I’m not done.”

And yes, I realize the magnitude of liquid that explodes from a man’s dick cannot be compared to a woman's eruption.

But this game involves secretions; it involves getting a little messy.  So if you’re too girly sit down and let the pros play this round.

All I can say is try to not only reciprocate oral sex but also finish the entire act.

Lick, suck, juggle, and swallow.

It’s an acquired taste that is never acquired, but hey, I’m sure it packs a better nutritional value than half the things consumed in our daily lives.

Like I do with straight vodka, chase it with something sweet and call it a night.

Becuming His Canvas

This is so random and off my usual sex deprived topic, but I found the memory hilarious and worth sharing.

While vacationing in Atlanta, I met this wannabe Rasta.  I expressed to him my passion for poetry and art.  How I began painting in high school and fell in love.

He too loved to paint.  I asked to check out his work sometime, or maybe become his subject.

He accepted and replied that he’d love to paint on me.

I completely missed the “on me” part.

His medium of choice differed from my watercolor or acrylic paints.

His was a sticky, high in protein substance known as semen.

Ejaculate.

Cum.

Jizz.

Turned out dude would fuck chicks from behind, pull out before he erupted, and cum on their backs.

Called it Picasso-ing.  

      

Claimed women love it.

I revoked my offer.

He also wanted to bottle and sell his sperm to prevent the rapid spread of breast cancer amongst Afro-American women, but I digress.

Boy do I love that city!

You Can't Handle the Truth

The only person who knows how many sexual partners I’ve had is Faye.

She didn’t gasp in horror the night I counted each conquest.  She just sat there in silence and then asked me if I used protection with the ones who were known to get around.

I was relieved my confession was received with concern rather than judgment. 

My ex once had the gall to ask me my number over fake Italian in Olive Garden.  I sipped on my Shirley Temple and replied, “Three, including you.”

I don’t even know if he believed me nor did I care at the time. 

"How many people have you had sexual intercourse with?"  

It is the age-old question people wonder but never ask, and never should.  It’s a truth people seek, but when faced with the reality that their partner has slept with more than a handful, they freak and become judgmental prudes.

Its like looking through your man’s phone to see if he’s talking to other females.  You come upon an unrecognized number and flip.  Next thing you know you start questioning his whereabouts.

I have no sympathy for women or men who snoop.  If you go looking for answers, be able to handle the truth! 

When the ex asked me my number again during the breakup I obliged him.  I told him the real number was triple that in Olive Garden and that his dick was amongst the top three worst fucks I had ever experienced.

He flipped like the chick scrolling through her man’s phone.  He told me I was a slut whore.  Said he never wanted to see my face again.

The lesson to be learned: seek the truth when you can handle the whole truth.

And never ask your partner their sex number.  It has nothing to do with the present, and is none of your damn business.  Its their past and should not determine if you continue to date them or even allow yourself to fall in love. 

If he or she has whore tendencies it will resurface regardless of your knowledge that they slept with 20 plus people.

So stop snooping and asking so many damn questions.  Chill out and enjoy being the only number that matters (even if it is a fallacy).

LOL!

Remember the Time When...

Faye is extremely nostalgic.  She reminisces about high school crushes, undergrad fucks, the smell of our AP Literature classroom.  When gas was 97 cents, the $4 teriyaki wings from the gas station near Marteen’s house.  Homecoming games, Sonic strawberry slushees with blue coconut add-in, Acrylic nails with rhinestones and a different design on each finger.

I always yell at her to stop.  To let all that shit go and focus on now.  The truth is I actually admire her ability to recall the past and not become overwhelmed with despair.

If I were to become nostalgic, my thoughts would not include high school dances or driving through our hometown at 2am looking for an open Taco Bell to consume our munchies.

My thoughts would cause my clit to tingle, my nipples to harden, the pace of my breath to quicken.

They would be thoughts of getting fucked in the dressing room of Express.  The sound of high heels approaching.  The knock on the door followed by Becky asking, “Ma’am are you ok in there?”

It would be the thought of getting my pussy eaten by the skinny yet charismatic Kappa.  The purple pillow he shoved into my mouth to stifle the sounds of ecstasy.

The sweet smell of Issey Miyaki. 

Or the night Ben came over after the Champagne Jam and fucked me until I begged for him to stop. 

The time Jerome inserted his fingers into my wet pussy on the dance floor as his main squeeze sat at the bar waiting for his return.

It would be thoughts of grinding on Carl's erect dick while Bobby Valentino sang “Slow Down”.

Skipping class to flirt with J.B. in the SBA office. 

Being young and fast but discreet with every sexual encounter. 

I have absolutely no regrets, but nowadays these thoughts only open the floodgates to wet panties in class.

So no more nostalgia and no more flashbacks.

1/2 a Year and Counting

Rent is due soon.  Every check written and cashed is not a reminder that my bank account is $900 less, but that another month has gone by without any good dick. 

October will be 6 months.

It never really dawned on me until my breakup how frustrated I have become.  Close friends are nervous to be around me because allegedly I’ve been known to snap on people for no reason.  I’m moody during the day, and depressed at night.

I constantly complain about my lack of a social life, which turns into a dramatic monologue detailing my lack of a good sex life. 

I am 23; yet my life resembles that of a 35 year-old single mother with two children.

To make matters worse, I’m feigning for dick and I don’t know if this newfound state of mind is healthy.  When people feign for things they become desperate and will do anything to get the high they crave.

Feigning for dick cannot be paralleled to feigning for crack.  A crack addict’s struggle is nothing compared to mine.  I’m not going to rob anyone for a hit or pimp my eldest child for money, but every night alone reminds me of how fucking horny I am.

Everyone around me is hooking up.  My friends are getting dick.  My enemies are getting dick.  Shit, my momma is probably getting some dick.  Faye says I need to lower my standards.  The thing is, they are low.  Them shits don't even exist anymore.  I no longer see the requirements of straight white teeth, a nice build, and intelligible conversation.

All I see is a tongue, dick, and balls.

I am almost on the verge of fucking people in my program, which is a HUGE no in my book.  I’m going through my address book contemplating what dick from the past can I call for a quick fuck.

I really need some good dick.

It is too damn early in the morning to be writing this shit.  It's almost 10am; people are earning money and recouping from getting the shit fucked out of them last night. 

Me on the other hand, I'm going to stop by CVS on my break and purchase a pack of AA batteries for my bullet.  Maybe I’ll invest in some K-Y for a more real life effect.

The Fine Print

Today was a pretty calm day. Faye and I went to the mall. We had fun bonding and supplemented our sexless lives with ice cream from Cold Stone. The advertisement was full of misrepresentations. It pictured a fulfilling " Like It" waffle cone bowl above the word FREE. But of course, the fine print read 3 ounce sample.

When the bubbly braces with purple hair handed me my sample it was like bringing a man home who spent countless conversations opening your legs with promises of massaging your clit while hooking his pointer and middle inside your vagina to stroke your G-spot. Only for him to get down there and begin knawing on your clit like he missed the memo that eating pussy doesn't mean eat, as in chew, as in pain, as in nigga get the fuck away from my clit and get the fuck out of my bed!

The thing is everyone misrepresents themselves in some fashion. I wear bras with underwire to support my double D's. Some women wear girdles to put everything in place. While some are just straight up perpetrating with fake breasts, lips, nails, and eye color.

Men do the same. If its not physical misrepresentations, its the verbal boost they give their credit score. Or the image that the soon to be repossesed BMW is actually paid for. That he's babysitting the three children trailing behind him in Publix when in actuality they are his (and each have different mothers).

Shit, we misrepresnt who we are not only to others but to ourselves. Most women are wearing the wrong bra size because they're too frightened to accept 40DD. Several men carry Magnums in their wallet knowing good well their 5 inch erect dick ain't equipped for no damn Magnum.

We all misrepresent to some point, but it becomes an issue when behind closed doors the truth resembles or is smaller than 3 ounces.

So before you snap on the dude chomping on your clit, think about all the misrepresentations you yourself have provided to lure him into your bed in the first place.

So Where Is My McSteamy?

I am ubberly excited that the season premiere of Grey's Anatomy comes on tonight!

Pussy In Distress Signal

This is officially blast from the past month.

First awesome jawsome dude, and now this other guy from undergrad texts me out of nowhere asking my whereabouts.  And to no surprise he too relocated to the next up-incoming spot for progressive blacks (like really, I swear this city has more black folk than ATL). 

This is the same man who wouldn't give me the time of day when your girl actually wanted commitment.  He strung me along for almost a semester and then just faded away into the arms, no wait, the pussy of another woman.

He wants to take me on a date.  Code for: I'm new to this city, haven't met anyone else, would like to fuck you and hope you don't mind how I totally dissed you in undergrad for the chick who was known to let dudes hit it raw.

Now of course, being an opportunist and avid believer in a free meal I do plan on accepting his offer. 

And its not just me.  My homegirl got a call today from her ex in undergrad.  They had a tumultuous relationship and dude was a complete douche bag.  So now he's either found God or is on a 12 step program because he claims to miss her and can't stop thinking about the family they could have had together.

Then her other ex hits her up on myspace saying he wants to link up.

Chick is straight bugging out, and so am I.

Why are the men from our past creeping up into the present attempting to be apart of our future?

Are we so freaking horny and borderline desperate that our pussies are inadvertently sending out distress calls?

And if so, can you lame ass negros please stop answering!