American boys.
The stench of cigarette smoke and the discoloration of coffee stains.
Wrinkled white t-shirts and tired eyes.
Used to be I felt their gaze had a price. Now
I say five words and they give me their number.

An American boy.
We lie on grass and smoke more cigarettes. Talk about French films.
He watches the world while he walks. Nothing passes him.
His hands fascinate me.

We don't do much of anything -
but lie in bed naked, pretending as if
he cares that it's my body there.

Later -
I see him walk down the street alone.
For American boys
there is no other way to be.

the teaches of peaches

fuck a 80 degree weather work day
it seriously makes me just want to lay in bed all day with a lover

since i don't get home until late i just lay here pretending, texting
it's different when the sun isn't here to illuminate our skin

i got these denim shorts in LA. they're a little too big for me and when i sit down i look like a have a massive boner. "helloo boys"

i've been kind of weird(er) as of late. i really like the idea of dressing up as a school girl - will do for halloween - and flashing people.

i'm turning 19 in less than a month. i must make the most out of my 18 year old shenanigans...

With you inside me comes the knowledge of my death

Lustmord (1993-1995), Jenny Holzer

"And that's what fucking feels like."

I got off my knees and onto my back. I was bewildered. I was naked in bed with him. A moment ago he had been between my legs.

“You are a really beautiful girl,” he said. He wiped the corners of his lips. He was a smoker and had a tendency to draw attention to his lips. I liked his lips. They seemed expressive. I liked his tired eyes. They were eyes that smiled. And I liked his hands. They were the hands of an American boy. The stench of tobacco and discoloration of coffee stains. I sensed freedom in his hands. He explored my body free of restrictions, the demons that have always kept me from understanding my own body.

It was 4 pm. The world outside seemed so calm. The light that shone through his window made our naked bodies appear soft. Like a dream. His finger was in my mouth. I sucked.

Boys. They smile and moan. I memorize their gazes and their tongues on my chest. Their faces when they cum. It’s what fucking feels like. Skin and insides. I always thought fucking would be intimate. But I thought only of myself and how separate my body felt from his body.

Maybe it's morbid to say that sex reminds me of death. But it does.

Flowers. My insides. Memento mori.

Fuck.

No oral sex. My stomach was too upset. I mounted the famous doctor's ex-wife. The cultured world traveler. She had the Bronte sisters in her bookcase. We both liked Carson McCullers. The Heart Is a Lonely Hunter. I gave her 3 or 4 particularly mean rips and she gasped. Now she knew a writer firsthand. Not a very well-known writer, of course, but I managed to pay the rent and that was astonishing. One day she'd be in one of my books. I was fucking a culture-bitch. I felt myself nearing a climax. I pushed my tongue into her mouth, kissed her, and climaxed. I rolled off feeling foolish. I held her for a while, then she went into the bathroom. She would have been a better fuck in Greece, maybe. America was a shitty place to fuck.

From Charles Bukowski, Women

I read Bukowski on the train today. It was crowded and noisy, but I wanted to read. I looked up and strangers read alongside me. The word "fuck" is one hell of an attention grabber.

I like reading men writing about women. A lot of it is fucked up. But at least it's real.

The writing I read about sex is not erotic. It's always raw. Sort of melancholy. Never romantic. Erotic writing always focuses on what sex can do for a person. But I'm more interested in what it can't do.

Still Life

I saw the Horrors at Bimbo's 365 Club this past weekend. I came about 3 times. Standing there surrounded by girls with Horrors haircuts felt so 60's. I'm ready for October, a month of shows.

Getting laid in San Francisco is not hard. Something about the energy here.. everyone is so close, but deeply preoccupied with themselves, people want romance but think, oh god why is there no space? It feels like you’re sleeping with the same people over and over again. And in San Francisco nothing is shocking. You sleep with a 30 year old internet start-up employee and it’s whatever. You sleep with friends of friends and guys you went to high school with, but only because it’s legal now. There are the tourist summer flings. Then the thousands of recycled hipster boys who all like that you’re Asian and you like Wes Anderson.

Everyone has their own spot they’ve marked as special. The view of the city may be particularly beautiful, or it’s secluded and not too foggy. This is the spot they bring lovers to for making out. Smoking cigarettes. Maybe giving handjobs. They have a specific route for a romantic walk afterwards—each time, they remember what failed with past lovers and they try something new. A different turn. A different line. Maybe just different timing. It’s hard to think of it as anything but an experiment. A lesson in writing a good screenplay.

When I see two people on the street who look like a couple, I don’t assume anymore. Chances are they’re on their first date. Chances are one is going to walk the other to muni after fucking. San Francisco was made for walkers. It’s nice to walk together. Never take the bus together after sex. Take it alone. Sleep on the train. Grin. Or sit there and stare at your reflection. Just be content for a while.

i'm gettin tired of yo shit you don't never buy me nothin

see everytime you come around you gotta bring jim, james, paul n tyrone

wanna share fruit
New York. Sweden. Eiffel Tower. I was stressed out the other day so I bought an Acne sweater. I wear it like a catholic school girl. It works out well for me.

there's something wrong with my phone. your number's not in it
I bought this shirt jacket thing at Stussy. It says "S + M" above the pocket. In the lookbook it's modeled by Charlotte Free but I think the styling is bad. I like to wear it with this dogtag my friend made for me:

"If killed in action, return to SF"
By the way: Vicious V may or may not be my new nickname.

I've been so tired lately. Always sleepy. I don't know why. I want to get my Kiko haircut like now. I want a massage. A manicure. A Celine bag. And more coffee, please.* i <3 u *