Years ago I wrote a whimsical poem called How to Give Your Man the Best Sex Ever for my blog Eroticapoetica. The poem was impressionistic. It wasn’t real sex advice. Yet I started to notice google search terms for “give your man the best sex ever” were directing to my blog. So I wrote a serious article on the topic.

Some women might assume that “giving best sex ever” means all the traditional images of bending over backwards to please your man; offering blowjobs, dressing like a porn star, doing anal, yada yada (yes I just yada yada’d sex). …

Perhaps I was

cardamom

in your coffee,

scent of cinnamon

after too long;

spice of life.

Yet for you

I traversed

the Silk Roads,

entered tribal lands,

became lost.

Sacred songs

encircled me,

of wildness

and love,

holy longing.

In this desert,

arid and mysterious,

your lips

are like

water.

Are you an oasis

or mirage?

I cannot tell.

Still, I drink deeply

of you,

subsisting on

memories;

your lingering reflection

in this shimmery well

of dreams.

I’m feeling annoyed. I hate every goddamn perfect cutesy Instagrammable thing, all the candy-colored unicorn shit, the Mona Lisa latte art, the dried wildflowers on gourmet cupcakes, any stupid artisan foodstuff involving charcoal. I’m so fucking over all these impossible #goals, every impetuous #mood, every frickin hashtag cliche.

And I hate the way tech shit has taken over and bled into real life and I’m seeing Twitter birds and Insta hearts drawn in chalk on sandwich boards as I’m walking down the street IRL. Btw I hate all these snappy abbreviations. Lmao. Jk. I have a headache. I’m feeling dehydrated…

This week, Kate Spade committed suicide. A tragic event that mystified and intrigued many people, Kate appeared to “have everything” — fabulous wealth, success, celebrity, a family, a glamorous New York lifestyle. Her untimely death has brought mental illness into the public eye.

I feel compelled to address this topic. As a woman who has cultivated intimacy with the vast realm of consciousness, a deep thinker and lucid dreamer, an intrepid psychonaut who has devoted her life to mapping vast swathes of unruly terrain within the inner world, I want to share what I have learned about mental illness.

At…

It took me a long time to realize that Zein was playing me. Or perhaps that is not entirely true. On some level I always knew he was playing me. I just couldn’t tell what his game was.

When I first met Zein he did not stand out that much. He was cute, but not that cute. His eyes were pretty, but not that pretty. He was charming, but not that charming. He made me laugh but not that hard.

I’m not sure why I agreed to go out with him. I’m an attractive woman and guys ask me out…

I was exquisite petals.

Pink, dewy, delicate.

Your fingers opened me,

coaxed me into full bloom,

until I reddened with color,

dripped with honeyed nectar,

decorous with feminine plushness;

a gleaming pistil,

a pulsing filament.

I was this radiant bouquet,

rosy blossoms

in your artful hands.

I was a pretty ache,

geranium-scented,

my breasts budding,

legs spread,

hips splayed,

wet and open,

resplendent.

I was garlanded

with your kisses.

Adorned, adored;

I flowered.

Aziz Ansari’s bad date, as recounted in salacious detail on babedotnet, stirred up the internet and got a lot of people talking. The romantic encounter, which started out with texting, progressed to a dinner date, and then an awkward sexual encounter, reminded me a lot of the New Yorker “Cat Person” story, another popular viral tale about modern love gone wrong.

Yet I found both stories to be of a categorically different stripe than others that have been shared within the context of the #metoo movement. I consider the line between crummy sex and sexual assault (which is a prosecutable…

Aziz’s Bad Date

Yesterday I read a story in Babe about Aziz Ansari and a terrible horrible, no good very bad date. The story was shared in the confessional, accusatory spirit of the popular #metoo movement and brought up a lot of questions for the general public around consent and sexual aggression in dating and relationships.

For me the Babe story was quite the uncomfortable read. I felt embarrassed for Aziz hearing such lurid intimate details of his date from a negative perspective. It was like he was his goofy out of touch character Tom Haverford, from Parks and Recreation, in real life…