La Mil Amores

El Rokero Quita V-cards:

Very loud, very fast and left me very sore. It was like having sex with a rabbit in heat. My lonjas bounced all over, I could barely hold my shirt down and this fool couldn’t care less as long as his dick was somewhere in between my legs. I swear he popped out twice and was thrusting in between my left thigh and pussy lip. He made a weird O-face and his sweat kept dripping on me. I wanted him out of my room so I pretended my mom was coming home and he needed to leave. I later found out he was notorious for taking gorditas virginities, so I told him he wasn’t my first and that knocked him down a few notches.

El Footbolista Machista:

This one was older, about 9 years older. Very nice at first ‘cuz I told him HE was my first. He thought himself an expert on vaginas and thought I was tight, so he believed me. He was big and thought that was good enough for any woman. Like “I got a big dick, what else you want from me?” type of guy. He started talking about marriage and babies so I told him he needed to stop all this thinking and that his dick lacked character. And that was that.

The Cholito Who Got Away:

We knew each other since we were sixteen. I had a huge a crush on him. The kind of crush that makes you day dream about making out and holding hands and playing grab ass all day but he had sex with my friend in my back yard and I never wanted to see him again. He was friends with my cousins so I’d still have to see him here and there until I moved. Then I ran into him three years later and he looked fine as ever (like really fine… And grown) and he wasn’t lookin at me like some homegirl anymore either. We ended up getting high and had sex in his car that night. It was A M A Z I N G and a bit harder than I thought it would be. Here I was thinking/hoping I would one day bump into him and show him how I do and here he was turning me inside out. We had sneak-a-boo sex as often as we could. He’d sneak over to my house or I’d sneak over to his and we could go all night! It was dangerous for us to moan in our houses so we’d usually have that breathe hard kind of sex where you have to use a pillow and cringe your teeth when you’re about to cum, it was all good. Until he got a real girlfriend and our sexcapades were over without warning. I’m not gonna lie, that shit hurt.

My Friend:

I got really drunk a few weeks after the Cuddy Buddy break up and I ended up giving my friend head. It was wierd. We’re fine-ish.
If sex makes things awkward, sucking your friends dick just makes shit wierd.

It took me a while to get comfortable with anybody else after my cholo found him self a petite sexy trophy girl, but after about a year I felt like I was ready to mount the ole’ saddle again.

El Enojon:

I don’t know what else to call him except for maybe immature? He threw a fit because he couldn’t get it up and then blamed me for it. This dude had issues and I took it as a sign from the universe that this angry mans penis did not belong in my body. It was my first attempt at sex after about a year so I felt that maybe it was my fault. Like I wasn’t perky enough or I talked his penis straight into flaccidness. It was somewhat traumatizing but I know it wasn’t my fault. Dicks are strange. Almost as weird as their carriers.

El Delicadito:

Diosita mia, this man was sensitive! I know many women complain about men not being in tune with their emotions or their feminine side (myself included) but not every woman wants the same type of sensitivity. I’m more than positive that I made myself very clear to this man and that we understood that our relationship was nothing more than sex. I didn’t want cuddles afterwards, I didn’t need him to hold me while I came and I certainly did not want to hold him, I didn’t want to tell him about my days or even discuss ideas if they didn’t pertain to sex with each other. High-fives, great job, and see ya next time was really what I was looking for. I just wanted him inside me and then out my motherfuckin house. I got a few nice breakfasts out of this but I’m not ever in any kind of mood where I want to deal with waking up next to someone or worrying about some dudes feelings because I didn’t text or call all day. Fuck that. Well fuck that for now, I guess.

There’s been a few others but I don’t feel like they’re worth mentioning really. It’s just basic dick that didn’t leave me with much to say or think about. I don’t feel like my list is long, I hope to meet other men so that I can have more stories to tell. I don’t think I use men to fill any voids, that’s what food is for. I’m just on a never ending quest to find the perfect dick that’ll really satisfy all my needs. But that’s more than likely not to ever happen because my standards are high and dicks are pretty low. Maybe I’ll find the perfect mouth to eat me out all the time instead? Who knows, life is full of wonders and shit fest.

I Swore My Heart Away When I Was 14

I Swore My Heart Away When I Was 14.
I remember lying in bed rogandole a la virgencita to please keep my dad safe from harm
hoping for a call I knew I wasn’t gonna get.
Praying I wouldn’t get a phone call that he’s been found dead by some dumpster.
I remember a night in particular when I got tired of praying for him
So I prayed for me.

Le pedi que me isiera no quererlo mas
Que lo sacara de mi corazon

I cried big heavy tears that soaked my pillow and mixed with bugers and saliva.
I woke up the next morning disappointed because I still missed him, con coraje, like every other day but missed him still.
Eventually I didn’t think about him so much and I forgot about my prayers I didn’t cry at night and I could sleep in complete darkness
I had long forgotten my pleas and gone on with my life

Three boyfriends and many sexual encounters later I remembered my prayer.
The one where I begged Mi Morenita to take my heart out and lose it in the cosmos
I realized Im 20 years old and have had 11 men walk in and out of my life, use and dispose of my body. Told them I loved them and hated them all in the same breathe.

I didn’t care to notice when they left or how three boyfriends and eight sexual partners who I’ve never even been with long enough to know their last name had gone through me.

My first boyfriend took my virginty because I guess my eyes said it was up for grabs the moment I let him lay on my bed. We dated two weeks, had sex for about 10 minutes, said see you around and I never cared to see him again

I regretted losing my virginity to him

So I told my second boyfriend he was my first. He was older… Way older. Like ‘ready to settle down and have kids’ ready. He saw me as the type to wife up and use my child bearing hips to carry his off spring. I couldn’t stomach the idea of having his kid and having to keep a piece a piece of him forever. So I didn’t. I ran away as fast as I could from that situation by blaming everything wrong with me on him. Made myself unbearable because it was easier for someone to leave me than it was for me to walk away. Even when I can’t love I can’t leave, the guilt of not being able to give back holds me.

My third boyfriend was accidental. We weren’t meant for each other but when it’s so cold out and someone shows you warmth with their own body, one tends to think thats a special trick no one else can do. To have someone want you for sexual favors makes you feel of use or somewhat important to someone and that can sometimes even make you feel special. It had been a long time since I could make a man happy with just a kiss.

I don’t remember how this ended I just know that it stopped.

After him I didn’t want anymore boyfriends. I wanted to keep thinking i was of use. I wanted to feel wanted. But I didn’t want to love. The trick is to always keep your eyes shut.

I thank my dad for teaching me body parts are just as disposable as whole bodies. He removed his daughter to find happiness while I simply removed my heart.

Selfish Lover

“It doesn’t always have to be about you.”
It is always about me though. You make it about me. You make it about me making it about myself. But it isn’t about me. It’s about you. You take my silence for anger, instead of hurt. You justify your actions by blaming the situation on me. You shrink me, because you can, and when I refuse to let you, I’m being an overactive heartless bitch.
“You started it. You said something hurtful, so I said something even more hurtful back. I had to one-up you. You act like you’re the only one who got their feelings hurt.”
Take some fucking responsibility. We’re not a couple of kids. If I hurt your feelings, fucking say SOMETHING rather than try to hurt me back. Call me out on my aggressive behavior. HUMANIZE ME. Make me see the wrong and why. Don’t belittle me in your reasoning for the hurt you caused.
“Stop being dumb. You started it. If you didn’t say something mean in the first place I wouldn’t have said anything mean back.”
You’re right, but you’re wrong and you know it. That’s why you keep using me as an agent for justification. You think my silence is guilt; that I am not speaking because I don’t want to admit that you’re right. I don’t want to admit that you’re right. I don’t want to admit that I can be a kid sometimes when I get angry. I don’t want to admit that you make me feel like a mouse compared to a lion when you talk down to me the way you do. I don’t want to admit that if I initiate dialogue about any of this that I will start crying. I don’t want to give you the best of me, even though you think you already have it.
“It doesn’t always have to be about you.”
But it does. It needs to be about me because you think it’s acceptable when we fight for you to stand over me while I lay down, so that your dick is in my face and its obvious you dominate. You have to be THE MAN, while I be the little woman, who started everything but can finish nothing. It’s your job to finish. You make that very clear and I feel like the cigarette butt you threw out the window, and your feelings are the sweet smoke you hold in your chest that comes out cleanly, precisely, and truthfully.
It needs to be about me because it is never about me. Because you either legitimize my feelings or you toss them aside. It needs to be about me because I am fucking DONE with my feelings only being the truth if you validate them. What the hell does it matter what you think about how I feel? Who are you to judge the hurt in my heart?
It’s need to be about me because this disrespect for my feelings, no matter how petty you think they are, are more important than your god damn ego.

de/romantic revolutions

I remember
the first time I went to the MEChA meeting
he was there
to the side with his Ché mane
sad eyes
and I liked him
                                                                        (no, you don’t understand)
he’s a beautiful brown man
he reminds me of my brother
lost, rocky childhood, angry, charismatic, womanizer
but wants to be a lawyer or politician
do right by his people
                                                                        (his mother)
first time he holds my hand, we’re at the movies
watching motorcycle diaries
his sweaty palm, let’s go
stares and for a moment I imagine revolutionary love
                                                                        (wack right?)
that’s when he tells me I’m naïve
I don’t know anything about people
people aren’t good.
He reads Langston Hughes,
I too sing America
I am the darker brother….
and then say’s he’s a feminist
because he believes women should have sex before marriage
                                                                       (sex with him to be exact)
I tell him I’m a virgin, I don’t want to have sex anytime soon
he’s totally into it
until we make out and he gives me a guilt trip
that I’m a tease
“blue balls” to be exact
“can’t you take care of that?” I ask
            “no, it’s not the same” he says.
The first time it happens
I’m in complete shock
                                                                       (he didn’t even ask)
I didn’t feel a thing.
Whenever “it” happened
I was never there, it was never about me.
I tried saying I love you, once
searched his eyes for a loving gesture
but never found one
I felt my body an object
a woman archetype
to get off
when I finally asked how many women he’d been with
he looked down and said “two”
“I don’t know….14-15?”
he’s 21.
“You’re too difficult.”
his response when I plead
for him not to enter me from behind, again…
and when he walks out enraged, I know it’s over.
About time I realize
romance and revolutions
don’t mix.

A Note to My Boyfriend, My Compadre: I Am Beautiful.

Dear X,

I’m sad in our relationship right now. I’m sad you don’t like my body. I’m still learning to like my body after years of hating it. Loathing it. Wanting to mutilate it. Agonizing over it. And I’m not sure we’re in a healthy space because of your disinterest or desire for my body to look like something other than what it is. This scares me and scars me.

What might be worse is that your interest in me sexually had declined. I cannot look like those girls who you watch get fucked day after day. I will not either. I love you because you are you. I want to have sex with you because you’re the only person I share sex with. In the last few months I have began to feel ugly and desexualized, yearning to be desired by anyone. I want you to love me for me—all of me. I want sex to be something for you, even if it’s just lust. I don’t want you to change anything about yourself if you don’t want to change. If you don’t want to change that’s fine, honestly. It will hurt me yes, but I would rather be happy out of our relationship than hurting inside of it. I cannot be in a relationship where I’m consistently reminded that my body is not “ideal,” and as a result of this, I get no sexual satisfaction. It’s not fair to me.

I’m pissed off that you masturbate all the while knowing I want sex. I feel like I cannot provide you with what you want because you obviously have no interest in me. If you are horny enough to masturbate, then you should be horny enough to have sex with me. I don’t want to be in a sexual relationship where I am required to be monogamous yet get nothing in return. I need to be sexually validated. You used to sexually validate me. And now you don’t. But my body is still beautiful even when I’m not a size 3.

I hope you know how attracted I am to you—your mind, your body, your quirks. I can’t tell you’ve gained weight. You are the harshest critic on yourself. Please, work on letting it go. Your body is amazing. It has the power to captivate me, make me feel loved, pleasure me, make me feel special. I miss these experiences. I deserve these experiences too.

I don’t want our sex life to be indicative of our relationship. I know that you really love me. I feel like your platonic best friend though. We will forever have a deep connection because you’ve made me a better person. I’ve grown since knowing you because of you. You provide me with reflection—you’re like a mirror and when I look to you, you can pinpoint my abilities and flaws. And then you help me through them.

If you would like help learning how to fuck differently, how to have sex, how to engage in sex with someone you love as opposed to some inherent impulse of spilling your seed, I will help you. I want sex for you to be as exciting and fulfilling as it is for me. Sex is not just the orgasm. Sex is the connection, the passion, the desire focused towards my other. I’m sad that sex is not that to you because it makes me feel less important, like I’m just a piece of ass. Even if it’s a fat ass.

I always thought that you were different, like you know how unimportant aesthetics are when defining a person. I thought you were more radical, but I forgot that you grew up in the same society that has devalued my body my entire life. Fuck society.