Are you just a “perv” looking to get a “nice fuck”?
Oh, but the amorous incident to which you have alluded ’tis not merely a “nice fuck,” but a connection betwixt mutual parties whose existential volition have gathered them inside a room with bare walls, save the undulating shadows of bodies which mark each desperate hump, her open wet wound hosting the mindless pulse of his want, as they, together, concede in each other’s eyes that shallow yet loving kiddy-pool of tentative love, graced by a flickering candle whose flame leans the other way from a bitten mouth’s sighed breath of oh god, as cursive, on a letter never writ, as if some written letter, the next week, could ever explain what happened.
I’m having boy problems… should I dump him before he dumps me? I’m feeling really emotionally vulnerable right now and insecure…I’m also on my period.
Yes, the person who dumps usually feels better than the person who gets dumped, and history is written at night, which means you might want to “kick it up a notch” and bang some bro, then let him find out to really stick it to him; no worries, love is war. I’m sorta joking, but sorta not. Karma is a funny thing, some people lol, some people omg. Every cry is an acronym. Damn, I hate feeling emo-vulnerable, when it’s so bad tv and booze don’t even work, like you have to fuck it out of you — that’s when shit goes down, the shit that poems are made out of, and if you’re gonna engage in period sex, the lube of denied baby, then do it over a towel, under the ceiling, you and whatever lover this broken universe provides that night, in between, each moan some illiterate elegy beside the tombstone of past wishes, hard enough to break your face into a nanosecond smile.
Do I need to tell my boyfriend about how my shrink thinks that my ex-boyfriend cheating on me has given me trust issues and caused me to feel guilty/angry at myself and giving me depression?
Damn girl, shit’s rough, sorry to hear about that. Yes, you should totes tell your current boyfriend about ur ex-boyfriend cheating, and your subsequent trust issues, but it’s really complicated you see, because — as modern psychology will suggest — people tend to choose partners in their adult life who will recreate childhood patterns of emotional trauma in an attempt to retroactively “master” them, so if your ex cheated, there is a chance you are subconsciously choosing unreliable or untrustworthy partners who will cheat, which may point to the kind of man your father was, and his emotional availability to both your mother and you, &c, &c. Sorry if I’m being presumptuous, and maybe you are fine and just had some bad luck, but you have mentioned guilt, anger, and depression, which are three biggies in the psych world of “issues.” Sigh, idk, just feels like life is fucked sorta for everyone. Babe, let’s go ice-skating when the ice cometh, somewhere on a grand lake nobody can see, shielded by a forest of leafless birches where we’ll hold hands and skate figure 8s, you can let go of my lonely claw when I start slipping through the cracks. My eyes, obscured by tiers of freezing water as I descend à la Titanic ending, will promise to be looking at you only, the faint moon eclipsed by your head, around which a soft halo of chilled light has formed, as the postcard painting I’ll take with me to the bottom, grateful.
Would you ever be a porn star?
Yes that would be amazing. I truly believe I would actually be a happy person, despite the stereotype of porn stars being emotionally/spiritually vapid; like, I’d still be “me” — a pretty well-adjusted deep literary bro, you know, I’d still read E.M. Forster or Susan Sontag, relate to Muslims and albinos, make vegetarian pasta, swirl wine, and be an overall sensitive caring somewhat co-dependent emotional pit — save the daily fucking, preferably outdoor/public humiliation with German accents, like I can go up to three times a day (five is my record). I also wouldn’t mind simply being the fulcrum of imminent squirt for a glory hole shoot, like I’m not some camera whore that needs to show off his face; in fact, let’s just turn off the cameras. Let’s just fuck in the dark, the purple bud of a bruise slowly blossoming on your face, each crushed capillary some demented signature written on your skull, such arbitration finalized via the flying dotted-line of my spunk arcing in some incomplete parabola, you waiting at the end, agape.
What does it mean if my friend wants to have sex with me but not kiss me?
It means he wants to feel wet “consistent” pressure around his penis until he cums but doesn’t find your face that compelling to look at, perhaps in part due to the astrological terrain of pus blotches asserted on your face via acne by a violent God who played the part of his cousin the awful day you were born.