The state of health care

 

Today, I spent six hours looking for a new PCP who could see me and my kid before Fall. Let me make this clear. I was just making phone calls and asking about accepting new patients. At no time did insurance ever come into the equation. I went through three pages of “recommended PCPs for you” from Blue Cross Blue/Shield before I could find someone willing to see me and my son in the month of July.

Meanwhile, I’ve been paying $400 per month for insurance since January. Yep, $400 a month to buy me some half-assed guesswork from some a-hole in a lab coat to see me sometime in September.  But I beat the system because sometime in July, I’m traveling to the rough part of Sanford to get misdiagnosed by someone who’s dying to diagnose me with some kind of disorder that requires opiates.  So they can get a kickback. Despite the fact that I am, and always have been, allergic to opiates.

That is the state of American healthcare.

I am a diehard capitalist starting to see the drawbacks of universal health care.

I take no medication. I have no chronic conditions. I do not require the regular intervention of a medical provider. I mainly request one single thing from my healthcare provider. Once a year, tell me if I’m dying or not.  I feel like that kind of thing should cost no more than $50. Currently. I pay ten times as much. They’re turning something simple into a cash cow.

I liken it to a mistaken deal I just made with my kid. He’s 17 now, looking for his first job, so in the meantime, I offered a deal. $150 a week to cook meals and walk my dogs. By that, I meant simple. Give me some cut up hot dogs and mac and cheese every day and we’re kosher. But no, this motherfucker had to get fancy. Suddenly, I’m getting grocery lists for cilantro, and emulsified garlic and clarified butter, Also, I’m getting bothered, because no, my son can not cook all these fancy recipes by himself. He needs ME to show him how to emulsify garlic and clarify butter. And I’m like “what the fuck am I paying you for, motherfucker?”

My point is this. I know how to clarify butter. I know how to emulsify garlic. Me paying you to give me further guidance on subjects I’m already clear on is stupid. I’m paying you to do the things I don’t have time to do myself.

And the same goes for doctors. I know my heart palpitations are bad. I know my stomach cramps are not a good thing. I know that sometimes when I shit a little when I’m supposed to be farting, that is a frowny face.

I don’t need 37 consultations and a tube up my asshole to know that.

But that’s the state of healthcare today. We no longer trust ourselves. We no longer trust doctors and as a result, doctors no longer trust themselves. We’ve become incapable of diagnosing steak and potatoes because we’re looking for veal and cilantro in a lemon butter reduction.

But it all comes out the exact same shade of medium brown bullshit and somehow, I’m paying $4800 a year no matter what.

 

I’ve failed as a woman

 

Earlier tonight, my son said something to me that made me realize I’ve failed as a woman.

Now, I’m not going to say failed as a parent, because that statement indicates that your kid is in your driveway, stabbing puppies with a box cutter and you’re saying “oh, look at little Brayden, so interested in what’s going on inside of animals. He’s going to be a surgeon someday!” while completely ignoring the fact that you totally raised a serial killer.  No, if that happens, “failed as a parent” is an appropriate phrase.

I use the phrase “failed as a woman” because my son said this;

Men are expected to accept all a woman’s flaws. Meanwhile, men are expected to have a six-figure job, a 9-inch dick and a perfect body, otherwise, they’re useless and laughable.

Yes, he said to me (the woman who pays his rent, buys his food and covers his subscription to whatever MGTOW discord he’s currently involved in) that women expect too much from men.

The irony that I literally paid for him to have the luxury of this opinion is not lost on me.

I failed as a woman because I’ve always made of point of pretending my life is easy.  He never knew about my 120-hour weeks of working for minimum wage while going to school full time.  Those times where I paid triple in daycare that I did in rent. Those times where I sold my own shit and went without so he could have whatever gaming system was hot. The times I came home from a 12-hour day and cooked dinner, only to save the big steak for him. The fact that I always ate the broken cookie and gave him the good ones.

He never knew about that because he was a kid. He didn’t deserve to know how much we lived on the raggedy edge.

He didn’t know about the creepy dudes who hit on me and got pissed when I turned them down because I was a single mom and should be happy to have the attention. He didn’t know that his dad, who never paid a nickel in child support, called me regularly to ask to borrow money. He didn’t know about the nights I stayed up, tense and uncomfortable, because a creepy stalker twice my age decided I owed him something because he sent some unsolicited flowers and kept pounding on my door. He didn’t know that I chose to be single for 17 years because you can’t trust men who are interested in single moms.

He didn’t know because I shielded him from that. I created a universe where it was me and him against the world. I created a universe where he could be anything.

To him, the world is filled with potential.   He knows that when people see him, they’re seeing a potential co-worker, or partner or friend. They’re seeing a bright, handsome man with no past and an open future. No racial bias or weird expectations.

He doesn’t know what it’s like to be viewed as one of two things; Fuckable or not fuckable. He doesn’t know what it’s like to go to a job interview and have a dude stare at your tits the whole time. He doesn’t know what it’s like to not be able to make rent, and have a creepy landlord tell you they can offer an extension in exchange for “some attention.” He doesn’t know what it’s like to get slapped and called a fat whore for turning such an appealing offer down from a man old enough to be his father.

He never will. Because I was there, protecting him.

I failed as a woman because I didn’t make my son understand that no, it’s not easy to have a vagina. I don’t just sit around, getting randos to pay my rent while I flash my tits on Instagram. The girls who do that are one in a million – and that’s fucking work too. A blow job is called a blow JOB for a reason, people. Otherwise, it would be a blow hobby.

So, to make this clear for my son and any other man who might be confused, no, women aren’t holding you to higher standards and demanding you appreciate our aesthetics all the time. We simply don’t want to be called fat, ugly whores for daring to use social media. We want to do our jobs without you feeling the need to comment on our looks. We want to exist without someone mentioning whether or not they want to fuck us.

The chicks that hold you to those high aesthetic standards? They’re doing it on DATING sites, where your number one goal is to be aesthetically pleasing to another human. I’m so sorry it’s very hard for you to be treated badly in a single, isolated place while engaging specifically in an activity almost entirely driven by aesthetics.

Try dealing with that shit while you’re selling an old jacket on Facebooks’ Marketplace, playing COD or Tweeting about Game of Thrones, or doing anything on Reddit ever. Imagine that every day, all the time, the entire world treated you like you were always on a dating site…and you always come up lacking. Imagine what it’s like to be put in a position where people think you owe them something, just for being alive.

Then, you’ll know what it is to be a woman.

I made sure to never do this to my son, to pigeonhole him into some role. I treated him like a person. I treated his thoughts and opinions with respect. I kept my adult conflict out of his life. But in that, I made a mistake. I somehow gave him the impression that it’s easy to be a woman.

So let me make this clear, boy whose entire life I fund by sacrificing nonstop while working twice as hard as a man for half the amount of respect.

It’s not.

To the dude who sent me unsolicited non-con erotica

I’d followed your for weeks. Leanrd your patterns. So that night in the parking garage, when I slipped a flouride soaked rag over your mouth, was a long time coming. One you’re out, I toss your over my shoulder. As I jam my cock into your mouth, you regret your uppittty mouth. You weeps as you realize your my cumslave now…

This missive struck a nostalgic chord with me which I couldn’t quite place. It took me a minute before I put it together but finally, I got it. Your writing is reminiscent of the non-con rape fantasy erotica of the mid 80’s Harlequin Presents series, written far before Christian Grey was a twinkle in his sphinxlike, whore of a mother’s eye.

My point is, dear writer, that you’ve mistaken try-hard edginess for shock value. You’re like the Mormon who drinks a Mountain Dew in a crack house and thinks he’s bad.

You aren’t bad. You aren’t bad until you’ve written everything from gang rape tentacle porn to “Christian values” spank fiction to make a buck. You have no idea the things I’ve written and the values I’ve compromised. You cannot shock me. This shit you’ve sent? It’s amateur hour.

Let’s discuss why.

“So that night in the parking garage, when I slipped a fluoride-soaked rag over your mouth…”

You know what scares people? Situations they can relate to. There’s a reason hooker murderers get away with it more than anyone else. It’s because the general public can say, “I’m not a hooker, so that would never happen to me.” They don’t get scared because they can’t relate to the situation.

Parking garages don’t scare me. I haven’t been in one since April 23, 1996 – aka the debut episode of “Forensic Files.” Also, you drugged me with Fluoride? What was your end game? To get me an “A+ Flosser” sticker at my dentist’s office?

“One(sic) you’re out, I toss your(sic) over my shoulder.”

I am 5’9 inches tall and 175 pounds. You (according to the handle from your email, which sent me to your Twitter, which sent me to your Facebook page, which I used to look up your real name and location and find your court records from your 2016 DUI) are 5’6” and weigh 130.   You aren’t “tossing” anything unless you’re talking about tossing up the cookies you had at lunch because you have manorexia.  If you want to carry me, ladyboy, you’re going to need a crane.

“You regret your uppittty(sic) mouth…”

Don’t God-mod my character.  Also, how’d we get to cock jamming again? Wasn’t I over your shoulder a minute ago? Or more likely, on the OSHA-approved crane you rented with your mom’s credit card? It’s like you don’t even know how to continuity.

I didn’t make it all the way through your story and that’s not on me. That’s on you. As the author, it’s your job to “hook” me and get me to read on, whether you’re writing a children’s book or an anonymous threatening email. That didn’t happen.  Your story inspired the same reaction I feel when I’m deleting discount Louie Boutin comments from my spam folder. Mostly boredom mixed with mild annoyance that you exist at all. If you were trying to get my attention, you succeeded, but not in a good way. More in the way a mosquito does when it buzzes in your ear until you squish it and forget about it.

If the goal was to scare me, maybe don’t leave your comment under a verified Gmail address. That actually does the opposite of scaring me. It gives me all the power. I could forward this message verbatim to your mom, your boss, your girlfriend, your kindergarten teacher, or everyone in your Warhammer group. The only thing keeping me from going full-on scorched earth is laziness and the fact that I have no idea what “Warhammer” is.

My point is, I’ve read some poorly written non-con erotica in my time, but yours is the worst. Not the “worst” in a way where it’s disturbing. “Worst” in a way where it’s poorly executed and was clearly written by a child – which is weird because you’re in your thirties. So tell the middle schooler who ghost-wrote your erotica to work on their craft. You, on the other hand, should fling yourself face first off an overpass at your earliest convenience – if you can get a friend to drive you there.

 

 

 

 

 

 

A message from the future to nice guys everywhere

I enjoy Quora. It’s a great place for know-it-alls to get validation from internet strangers, so clearly, that strikes a chord with me. I answer a lot of questions there and for some reason, I’m marked as a WW2 expert. I think it’s because of this one time I got into a drunken internet fight over the holocaust with a white nationalist. Weirdly, he wasn’t a denier. He was just upset I portrayed Hitler in an unflattering light in one of my posts because I claimed he was a poor military strategist.[i]

As I’m an avid Quora(er?), I get a regular feed of popular questions and topics of conversation. I typically ignore them. Then, I saw this gem in my inbox.

stupid questions

And they say there’s no such thing as a stupid question.

This question stems from the nice guy fantasy. Here it is in steps. I changed the font to red when the fantasy part starts.

  1. The meeting: A socially awkward dude meets a girl in his age range that he finds attractive. Based on the romantic comedies he watches religiously but claims he hates, he immediately attributes positive traits to this girl even though he knows very little about her.
  2. The relationship: He develops a friendship with a girl for the sole purpose of “girlfriend zoning” her. I call it “girlfriend zoning” because the friendzone doesn’t exist. It’s the default status we enter with any acquaintance. It’s not weird to expect to be friends with someone you just met. It is weird to expect an immediate romantic relationship (i.e. put them in the “girlfriend zone”.) During this “girlfriend zoning” stage, he continues to ignore any red flags, personality clashes or conflicting values. He’s convinced the “real” girl he made up in his head is somewhere under all that fallible human that gives him a semi.
  3. The confession: Now, I call this step “confession” even though that confession doesn’t always happen. In some cases, the guy makes an attempt and gets shot down. In most, the guy seethes silently as his friend fails to do anything to give him the relationship he feels he deserves. Short of showing up at his house and saying, “Hey, I’m your trophy girlfriend now. Let’s have weird kinky sex, even though I’m a virgin, while you tell me why PC gaming is better,” he won’t be satisfied. This is the point where he’s shot down because no one wants to be your mom/therapist/trophy/blow up doll.
  4. The rage: You’re so nice! Like the super nicest guy of all time. You respect women. Which is why you don’t understand why that dumb slut can’t see how great you’d be for her. How you’d give her all those things that she never said she wanted. You say you’d treat her like a queen, all the while not realizing how ironic that statement is. Most monarchical couples entered relationships for the sole purpose of furthering diplomatic efforts and rarely, if ever, were spurred by romantic feelings. These relationships almost always devolved into loveless, sexless partnerships as soon as enough heirs were secured. In these partnerships, the king got to do whatever the fuck he wanted. Meanwhile, the queen was expected to act as a paradigm of virtue and chastity before dying of old age at 45. Essentially, the queen was a figurehead, there to provide sex and assurance to the emotionally fragile men of her time. Fuck, no wonder you want to treat her “like a queen.” You get to pile all your unreasonable expectations onto her, hold her to ridiculous standards you could never meet yourself and then offer nothing in return. Shocker chicks aren’t into that.
  5. The sour grapes harvest: “The bitch got a boyfriend? He’s probably some Chad that beats and rapes her and she totally deserves it.” That’s the thing with nice guys. They’re not actually nice. I’m not an expert here, but I guarantee nice people don’t typically blame the victim or hope for terrible things to happen to others. Other people don’t need to “earn your respect.” You need to be a respectful member of society.
  6. The question. He posts a question on Quora asking for fake internet points and validation from other nice guys the world over.
  7. The epiphany. The girl he was in love with sees his question. It’s been ten years, and she’s been through a lot. Because she always dated rapists and abusers, she’s a single mother to six kids. Being pretty, she was unable to develop any useful life skills and has been trapped in a series of minimum wage jobs ever since she got too flabby to earn money on the stripper pole. She responds to his question, saying, “I’m so sorry. I knew you were nice but I never knew you were that nice!  If only I hadn’t rejected you when I had the chance. Oh, woe is me! Please take me back and care for me.”
  8. The end. He teleports behind her, and says “sorry, nothing personal kid but no fat chicks.” He tips his fedora and heads off to fuck all the waiting supermodels who love him because of his crazy new app that made him a billionaire.  

This, Quora dude, this is the story you want to happen. But the thing is, we both know it didn’t because you’re asking questions on Quora rather than gaining insight from your close friends Elon Musk and Warren Buffet.

So let me tell you the truth. She doesn’t regret rejecting you because she doesn’t remember you.  You don’t exist to her. You were the thirsty dude she met a long time ago. Even if you defeat the odds and somehow manage to become a tech billionaire like Marc Zuckerberg, she’s still going to ignore you because you weren’t that important to her life. She’s going to see you on CNN and say “that dude looks familiar. Was he the guy on the “Vampire Diaries?”[ii]

She doesn’t have six kids, but she probably has some because unlike you, she went ahead and continued to meet people and have life experiences rather than being stuck in a high school “jocks against the nerds” mindset. She went to college. She developed skills that she used to grow her career. She, at age forty, is statistically financially and professionally more stable than her male counterparts. She has a 401k, a college fund for her kids, six months of savings in her checking account, an average credit score of 750  and a mortgage.

She got all this through personal growth. She is not the same person today that she was at 19, 25 or 31. She doesn’t regret those years because they helped her carve out an abundant life. She’s in a happy relationship with someone who has the exact same mindset.

And she doesn’t remember you.

What I’m trying to say, Quora dude, is stop being sour grapes. This fantasy you have where she’s a 42-year-old failed stripper doesn’t make her look bad. It makes you look bad. Because apparently, you’ve been pining after a girl with no life skills or accomplishments outside of being pretty for a very long time. If your fantasy was real, you’d be even more pathetic than you are right now.

You did a brave thing by shooting your shot. You got shot down and that experience should make you tougher, help you grow. Take the loss, learn from it, and drop the sour grapes. Don’t ever think about your rejection again because she isn’t going to either. She doesn’t care and neither should you.

 

[i] Calling Hitler an excellent military strategist is like claiming Casey Anthony is an expert on early childhood development. Hitler was not a great military strategist. He was just charismatic and insane.  Russia could have assassinated him at any time. They chose not to because he was so incompetent and overly emotional, they knew he would end the Nazi party for them. He was Europe’s Kim Jong-il.

[ii] Whenever I see someone that I know I recognize but don’t know why, I just assume I saw them on the Vampire Diaries.

 

Fear Women

There is one reason the genders remain unequal. It has nothing to do with strength, or smarts, or numbers. It’s a simple, primal driver that we, as a people, have rejected to our detriment.

It’s fear.

Men don’t fear women the way women fear men. As a woman, I live my life in a constant state of fear. If someone is walking behind me, I’m aware. As I enter my car in a dark parking lot at night, I’m holding my keys like tiny brass knuckles, ready to fight off wayward sex murderers. Every time I have an orgasm, the last five seconds or so is spent worrying that racing heart is less passion and more aortic dissection. Ok, that last one was more the responsibility of Father Time, but my point is the same.

Every time I think I’m about to die, a man is the culprit.

I’m not saying that to be like “all men are brutes that are always hurting us, innocent women, all the time.”  I’m saying that because I don’t understand why men don’t feel the same way. I don’t understand why men aren’t afraid of women all the time.

They really should be.

I blame the press. I’m going to use Aileen Wuornos as my example. Aileen was dubbed the first female serial killer by the press. She was active over a nine-month period from 1989 to 1990. In that time, she murdered 7 men. During her tenure, she murdered on average one man per month. Her nearest serial killer competitor per capita is John Wayne Gacy, who murdered every two months.

By kill count, she’s an impressive specimen alone. Being female, that just made her more appealing to the press. But they were wrong about one thing. She certainly was not the first female serial killer. Nor was she the most prolific.

That honor goes to Countess Elizabeth Báthory of Hungary.  Between 1603 and 1610, she murdered over 650 serving girls via exsanguination. She used their blood as a moisturizer because she thought it reversed the aging process. She served four years in prison before dying of natural causes. She single-handedly committed the equivalent of genocide and pretty much got away with it.

Because men don’t fear women. Even when the men in charge knew what she did, they still couldn’t bear to put her down like a rabid dog. They still thought she was redeemable. If you think women trying to change men is the cliché, you’ve been sucked into a wrong way of thinking. That cliché goes both ways.

Think of the nerd with the bad girl fetish., Think of how he’s always chasing that hot, coke snorting, Molly-popping party girl. He hates how that party girl keeps going back to her coke dealer boyfriend. He doesn’t see how she could see anything in a commitment-phobic, drug addict asshole who’s only redeeming quality is their extreme attractiveness. That nerd will never see the irony. Never see how they’re the one chasing a commitment-phobic, drug addicted asshole who’s only redeeming quality is extreme attractiveness.

They don’t see that because they don’t see women as people. They see them as accessories. Things you can win, like goldfish at a carnival. Pets. And pets, they’re never bad. They just take on the traits of their masters and masters never fear their pets.

Which is why those men don’t fear women. The dude who says to me “I’ll never hit a woman” is actually the most misogynistic asshole I know. And stupid. The dude who says something like that? He’s also the cat who gets murdered after marrying a black widow and signing a big fat insurance policy with her as the beneficiary. And she gets away with it because men don’t fear women.

I don’t have to be stronger than you to slip a little anti-freeze into your coffee every day until your heart explodes. I don’t have to be smarter than you to push you in front of a train and tell your friends you were suicidal. I don’t need an army of thousands to spray some ricin into an air duct and watch everyone die of a strange, aggressive flue-strain. I can ruin your day. I can end your life. My gender in no way prevents that.

Men, I think you’re the problem in gender inequality and not the way you think. I think most of you are normal, law-abiding, sweet dudes, who would gladly pull over to the side of the road to help a damsel in distress.

And that shit is going to get you killed!

Girls don’t flag people down anymore. We all have AAA. If she’s flagging you down, it’s so her boyfriend hiding in the bushes can rob you. Just drive on! Stop being stupid. When you drive around, willing to give kindness to any pretty girl you see, you’re kind of asking for it.

Fear women. That’s what’s finally going to make us equal. The day I can pull over at a rest stop, and have a young man flinch away when I approach him for directions, that’s how I’ll know we finally made it. That’s how I’ll know the genders truly are equal. I’m not asking a lot. I just want you to fear me.

Sorry boys, the wall hits everyone

 

There are a lot of places I wish I never visited. A Yuma porta-a-pottie in July, Berlin’s Love Parade during a hepatitis outbreak, New York City at any time, ever.  But there are no places I regret more than Reddit. Only on Reddit was I introduced to incels, MTGOW and the Red Pill. Only on Reddit did I learn about “the wall.”

the wall

Not this one. This is one of the good ones. 

The wall is like the international date line, but double the neckbeards. It’s an imaginary barrier placed in a woman’s timeline that establishes when she stops being relevant because she’s no longer fuckable.  The barrier moves based on the pedophilic or hebephiliac tendencies of the user.

Just a side note here. If you’ve ever been pissed because someone called you a pedophile, when really, you’re a hebephile, you’ve chosen the wrong hill to die on. You are a garbage person and your DNA does not need to be carried forward. Semantics don’t change that.

The wall is tied to a woman’s fertility because it’s possible to create a timeline for it. There’s physiological evidence that we’re no longer able to conceive. There is a clear criterion for calling a woman unfuckable, hence, the wall.

Male fertility, on the other hand, is harder to pin down. We know that by age fifty, a man’s ability to produce viable sperm is reduced by 90%. That aged sperm is 5 times more likely to result in genetic mutations, with more than half of those mutations resulting in death before the age of three. Also, about 76% of men age 50 and over report consistent problems with maintaining erections until ejaculation, so we need to figure that in. Can’t hammer a nail with a limp noodle, and all that.

Ok, so it’s actually super easy to pin down. Let’s just break it down by sperm count. At age 25, you have 100 viable sperm out of the hundred thousand you spray and pray out. By 50, you have 10. By that age, not all your remaining sperm are healthy. When eliminating the risk of birth defects, your chances drop by 2/3. You now have three viable sperm left. We tack on the fact that most men jack off three times as much as they fuck, you’re down to one.  You now have less than 1 in 100 chance that you will have intercourse which will result in a viable birth. I thought that stat looked familiar. It was.

Turns out, the likelihood of a 50-year-old man becoming a father is exactly the same as the likelihood of a 50-year-old woman becoming a mother. If we’re determining human value based strictly on our ability to produce offspring, men and women are neck and neck at 50. And that isn’t an opinion. It’s verifiable science.

But society ignores that because men run it and they need to believe they’re immortal. They also like to claim that dudes get “more distinguished” as they age while women just fall apart. They point to dudes like Charlie Sheen as evidence they can continue pulling dime 20-year-olds forever.

But the thing is, Charlie Sheen is special. He was handsome and charismatic when he was 18. He’s still handsome and charismatic now. Age didn’t make him better. His awesomeness was established at birth.   My point is, the 50-year-olds you see pulling 22-year-olds? Yeah, they’ve been doing that shit for thirty years. You only noticed now because of their age. Age is correlative, not causative. When you (a normal person) turns forty and you try to hit on some 22-year-old chick, she’s not thinking about “how distinguished” you are. She’s feeling for her pepper spray to make the creepy old man go away.

It’s kind of like how I claim that being drunk at 9 a.m. doesn’t count as day-drinking because I never stopped drinking the night before. It’s cumulative effort which allows me to be shitfaced when most people are watching Good Morning America and still not technically be considered an alcoholic. It’s years of work, not a sudden new power given to me when I hit middle age.

Beautiful, fuckable people just stay that way, whether they’re 17 or 57.  For them, there is no wall. For the rest of us, there definitely is. It hits you around 9 a.m., on a Tuesday, when you’re still shitfaced from the night before and wondering if that yellowish tint to your skin is a tan or jaundice.  And you hope that it’s jaundice. Because at least then, you know how you got it.

 

To the dude who sent me unsolicited erotica,

I would love to kiss your neck so softly as my hands slide up your stomach through under your shirt to caress your breast, as my cock gets harder then its ever been with the thought of penetratingly your wet pussy, as I move my lips away from yours and slowly kiss my way down your body all the way down to your feet, while sliding off your under wear. I would slide my hands up your legs Intl your inner thighs and start rubbing clit before putting my tounge in and tasting you, occasionally slipping my tounge into your tasty ass hole. By this time I couldn’t help myself but stuff my cock into your vagina as you bite your lips and pull me closer to you. I want to **** you until I cum

First off, let me say I admire your moxie. It’s not easy to open our writing up to criticism, especially when it’s of such an intimate nature. You’ve shown real guts in sending this message to me – along with thousands of other women – in the hopes of gaining valuable feedback.  Luckily for you, I’m an expert source for writing feedback. After all, I did spend $80k getting a degree in a language I already spoke fluently. So I can tell you this with 100% certainty. Your writing will need extensive work if you ever hope to publish.

Let me cover some of your biggest issues.

  1. Punctuation. I understand punctuation can be a stylistic choice. However, as a stylistic choice here, it reads less “fevered sexual rush” and more “schizophrenic rant to an entity only I can see.” You lack the technical skill to use punctuation as a tone device. Stick to periods, like your mom should have done.
  2. Mixing tenses. You’re either in the past or the present. You can’t be both. Especially not in the same sentence. Let’s explain with this heaping pile of exposition.  “By this time I couldn’t help myself but stuff my cock into your vagina as you bite your lips and pull me closer to you.” You’re using active verbs but setting the scene with passive voice. You can’t do that. Well, you can if you want your text to read like amateurish word salad. If that was the goal, well played.
  3. Continuity. One minute, you’re licking my asshole. Then, suddenly, you’ve managed to jam your cock into me without moving at all. Is this a sci-fi fantasy where you’re a new species (perhaps alien) with a facial penis? If so, you need to revisit world building and establish that sooner. If not, there needs to be more of a transition between ass licking and cock stuffing. That tip applies to both writing and reality.
  4. Redundancy and passivity. During your train wreck of an opening sentence, you used the word “your” nine times. Buy a thesaurus. Learn to mix your sentence length and structure. The fact that I have to tell you this should be a clue that you’re not a good writer, but in case it isn’t clear– Never, under any circumstances, use the same word nine times in a single sentence.
  5. Narrative/POV. You’ve done a good job of establishing yourself as the central figure in this draft – and I imagine that’s a skill which extends to the bedroom. The issue is the POV doesn’t work for the market. Look at any successful erotic novel written for women. They all had one thing in common. They cast the woman as the central figure and focused on her feelings, rather than the man’s. The reason for this is simple. Women don’t get off the same way as men.  As such, describing how you feel when you get off to a woman is unlikely to turn her on. It just reads as an internet pervert typing one-handed to an apathetic audience.
  6. Derivative subject matter. You know what every internet pervert has in common? They view sex as a three-step process. Kiss, lick genitalia, intercourse. I assume they do so because that’s all they know. And if that’s all you know, you’re not qualified to write erotica. You writing erotica is like my 90-year-old Memere writing a developer‘s guide for ARkit.   It covers the stuff everyone already likes with no nuanced understanding of what makes it good.

As it stands, what you’ve submitted is not ready for publishing. I’ve ignored the vast majority of your serious grammatical issues as I know you’re not intending to sell this work. But I also want to point out it’s not ready to be read by anyone you hope to fuck; unless you’ve decided you’ve changed your mind about fucking them and want to shut it down. Like if you found out she had herpes, AIDs, living parents or some other terrible affliction.  If that’s the case, writing on spec was the right choice.

In any case, if you want to turn someone on with words alone, understand how words work. You’re not going to find love sending mass emailed erotica to strange girls. The only ladies who’ll give you a positive response are chatbots and catfish.  Best case, normal chicks will just add you to their block list as yet another creepy weirdo with zero self-awareness.  Worst case, some asshole copies your message verbatim and posts it on their website, so when all the other girls you sent it to search it (which they will) they wind up on a page calling you out as a total tool.