I am not a beauty blogger. When The Butters Hygienics Co. offered to send me their Zit Zapper Anti-Acne Face Cream, I made it clear to them that I had absolutely no idea how to review it. While I know nothing about skin-care products – I don’t even know whether my skin is dry or oily! – I was in the middle of a particularly bad spot outbreak and was eager to get my hands on it.
There’s a guy I haven’t fucked, but who I’ve thought about fucking. I’ve thought about fucking him a lot. Because I haven’t fucked him yet, I dream about fucking him: filthy, explicit dreams that leave me waking up hot and horny, grinding my junk into the sheets in search of friction. Last night I didn’t just dream about this boy but about two of his friends as well. Two of his best friends, who helped me fuck him. For the purpose of this story, let’s call them Oliver and Liam, because I want to talk about how hot it was to watch the boy get fucked by people who know him even better than me.
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I feel like I blinked and September vanished – a whole month of 2020 flashing before my eyes as I made big life decisions and tried to write even one piece of sex-positive shit for Smutathon. Smutathon, for those of you who don’t know, is a twelve-hour, smut-writing marathon where sex writers from around the world come together to fundraise through creating filth. It’s a brilliant event, and it means I have loads of sex positive shit to share with y’all.
I’ve written about this before. It feels like this is all I write about right now – that I cannot create anything of worth to anyone else and I just keep spilling out self-indulgent essays on how I can’t stop thinking about suicide. In reality it isn’t, it’s the fucked up fog of lockdown and depression that twists time until I’m convinced that I only just wrote about this. And even if it wasn’t, I’m still allowed to write about it. It’s my blog, even if being a suicidal sex writer feels very off brand.
Useless. Lazy. Pathetic. I’m very ill right now and we’re in the middle of a global pandemic, but that doesn’t stop me feeling guilty about everything I’m not doing. I’m burned out and exhausted, but the more time I spend trying to just take care of myself the further behind I get on everything else. This isn’t healthy, I know that logically, but logic doesn’t help right now. (Strap in for a super self-indulgent post, y’all, with a content warning for self harm, mental illness, and poor hygiene habits.)