I was writing about fucking and I wanted to write about a woman’s vagina using a term that was sexy. Not biological, “vagina,” not crass, “pussy,” “cunt,” but in a way that embodied the heat of the moment, like “cock.”

“Cock” is a perfect word for a penis in action of being adored or useful. You want to be fucked by a cock. You want to take a cock in your mouth. You want to feel a cock get hard. It sounds hot to fuck a cock.

“Pussy?” Does that sound as hot, as sexy, as alluring? No, not really. We’ve learned to disregard the “pussy,” the effeminate, the wuss. “Cunt?” We like to use that term to devalue anyone who is difficult. “Vagina?” Shesh. Hand me a textbook, what cream do you need?

Then there are all the other funny, silly terms referring to the vagina: muff, clam, pink taco, Picachu… You don’t want to read about her clam, slick with anticipation. Ew. You just think of shellfish, and fish, and gross smells. You don’t think about this most intimate part of a woman, how she comes alive from your touch, from your thrust, smelling the sweet musk of her dampness as you learn her body and how to make her gasp.

Then there are all the euphemisms, dancing around the vagina, suggesting it’s not even worth naming: holiest of holies, that space/button/spot between her legs, her very core. Her very core? Really? No, it’s not her core, it is the body part able to give her immense pleasure, able to give another immense pleasure, a conduit between two people, or part of her body she explores herself.

I want a word for the vagina that feels like cock. Something to be proud of. When I fuck you, I want to fuck you with credibility. The sort of credibility “cock” gives to a penis. Without “cock,” a penis is just some flaccid rope of skin hanging from your torso. You tinkle with a “penis.” A “cock” you fuck with. I want the word that gives the vagina the same validity and respect and desire as “cock” lends to the penis.

The vagina deserves it’s own “cock.”

It’s Fall. It’s all about warm snuggly scarves, and romantic fires, PSL, and of course, fashion! What’s got our engines revving this Fall?

10. Graphic T’s.
Short or long sleeve, layer with a graphic T and spice up the jeans and boots look for 2014.

available at ASOS.com

9. Add an Ear Cuff.
Anyone can wear earrings, but it takes a little sass to sport an ear cuff. Hot on the red carpet over the summer, the heavier pieces are better suited for Fall, so indulge!

For a daintier look go for the small cuff connected by a light chain to a post.

Available at NastyGal.com

8. The Work Boot.

And all its cousins. The work boot is coming back in a big way. For your nostalgic side, grab a pair of Doc Martens. If you can’t imagine leaving your heels at home (I know I can’t!), go for a creative take on the style.

Available at DrMartens.com                                   Available at Sorel.com

7. As always, the Sweater Dress.

Tried and true. The Sweater Dress is one of the cuter cozy options for the fall. Hugging you in all the right places to give you a feminine warmth through the cool months.

Spice it up with an interesting neckline or color.

Available at Nordstrom.com

6. Make a Statement (Necklace).

When you’re bundling up head to toe, your simple chain gets lost in all the layers. Grab a bold piece and have some fun!

Available at JCrewFactory.com

5. FUR!

Yes, I said it. FUR. FUR and faux fur, of course, is back in a BIG way this Fall. A nod to classic glamour, fur is not just gorgeous, but functional. What better to keep you warm on a hayride than a grand fluffy jacket or coat? Go for a 3/4 or full length for a more mature look, or a bomber style for a little flirt!

Mix your media- this shearling and leather coat is moto magic!

Available at H&M.com

4. Mind your Midi.

The midi ring is all over the place. For good reason. It’s adorable. Silver, Gold, Rosegold; plain rings or some with a little bling… Grab one at your nearest boutique. For a few dollars, these little baubles are the best buy of the season!

Available at Etsy.com

3. The Incredibly SEXY Thigh High Boot.

Nothing says “Well, helloooooo, sailor!” quite like the thigh high boot. Get the look in suede or a distressed leather with a shorter heel to soften the look. Or go big with sleek leather and a sky-high spiked heel!

Available at Nordstrom.com

2. Sweater Tunic, totally!

Inspired by leggings, I’m sure, the Sweater Tunic can be classy, cool, cute, or cut-out! Stock your wardrobe with these bad boys, and you’ll always have a quick outfit fit for work or play. (Just remember to grab a tunic that covers that toosh!)

Available at Madewell.com

1. And, finally, the top pick for your closet this Fall… Leather. Pants.

Let’s just let that soak in for a moment. Oh, they’re here, and they are as bad ass as they were on Eddie Murphy, when he was still funny… Remember that time? Grab a pair of leather, or faux leather, leggings or straight-leg pants, pair them with your graphic T, put that ear cuff on, and slip into your adorable fur bomber. You’re all set, Miss. LadyPants!

Front panel look available at Guess.com.  Skinny leg moto pants and this fun cut-out paneling available at Nordstrom.com

And whatever you do this Fall, don’t be afraid to try something bold and new, have fun with it!

10. UGGs- Have you ever felt the joy of walking on clouds made of shearling?? No? How sad for you.

9. Pumpkin Spice Lattes- And never experiencing an internal shame spiral wondering what the dickhead behind you thinks of your coffee order. #PSL

8. Scarves- It’s not cold enough for a jacket yet, but you’re feeling that morning chill. If you’re a Basic Bitch, you simply reach for one of your many pashminas. You have a scarf in every color, and your wardrobe is glorious!

7. Leggings- Ever wonder what it feels like to go to work in your pajamas? Basic Bitches don’t wonder. They KNOW.

6. Halloween- There’s no stress over some clever costume of an obscure reference that will prove your superior intellect while you guzzle beer at the local bar. Hell no. As a Basic Bitch you simply rotate through 3 costumes: Sexy Cat, Sexy Witch, Sexy Cop, and done. Also, you can wear UGGs with all of these options.

*note the boot coverings for your UGGs

5. “Hash tag”- Turns out, in the Basic Bitch’s world verbal hash tags are still a thing. A beautiful, delightful, wondrous thing! “Hash tag: Bite me.”

4. Selfies- Whenever, wherever, there will be a Selfie. And it WILL be adorable. #NoShame

3. Taylor Swift- You know you want to gleefully belt out “Shake It Off” every time you hear it. You know who can? Basic Bitches. Because Basic Bitches love the Top 40.

2. White. Girl. Wasted.

1. Popular Shit in General- Yeah, a fuckton of people like it. Maybe that should tell you something. Basic Bitches just like the shit they like. And they know the clothes they wear and the music they listen to doesn’t have to make a statement to the rest of the world. It just has to put a smile on their face. #BasicLife

Because I don’t want to be another faceless, nameless number on someone’s list of victims. Jane Doe number 1,394. Another figure to account for. Another variable in how the settlement is broken up between other faceless, nameless numbers. Because I don’t want to be another victim something bad happened to. Another file. Another someone no one knows how to talk to. Another broken someone.

Because I don’t want the people at work to know me as that girl that thing happened to. That thing they had all been talking about when it was on the news. An untouchable now that they know. Because I don’t want to have to wonder if the reason it seems like the room just went quiet is because I walked into it. Because I don’t want my family and friends to ask me if I am ok, but secretly hope I will just say yes, because they don’t know how to talk to me anymore. Because I don’t want everyone holding their breath, waiting for something else to happen to me.

Because I don’t want this to be the first thing people see when they look at me. The something bad that happened to me. The victim. Because I don’t want to wonder what will happen when someone new finds out. Because I don’t want to answer the same questions all over again.

Because I am so very angry. Because I am so very lost. Because I don’t know who I am any more. Because I don’t want to be this part of me. Because you don’t get to choose which parts you keep.

Because this is mine, damnit, and not everyone else’s. Because I get to decide. Because if I didn’t get to choose then, I do now.

They tell you you’re beautiful. They tell you you’re beautiful, and you’re silly for not thinking so. Or you’re fishing for compliments. Or you’re being falsely humble- when you look back at them with disbelief, and say, emphatically, No, I’m not. They tell you you’re beautiful, while they leave you for someone whom you can see is actually beautiful; with a curvy feminine body, long hair, oval face with smooth skin, bright eyes, high cheeks. You can see she is actually beautiful, and you know there’s no competing with her beauty, you’d make the same decision too, if you were in his shoes. Why not?

They tell you you’re beautiful, and you know you’re not. Because you have eyes, and you are under no illusions of your own face, hair, body. Everything just stops short of beautiful. Sure, you doll yourself up. People have remarked on how nicely you “clean up” or change your look- it’s because you know how to do makeup and you can smooth over and improve your face- brighten your eyes, add contour. You can dress in clothes that lengthen, enhance curves. You can affect an air of attractiveness, confidence, somehow your heels bolster your feeling this illusion is working.

But, you know it only lasts so long, and as they are telling you you’re beautiful they are looking at a woman who actually is. And doing the math on how to politely get away from you and get near her. They tell you you’re beautiful, and they enjoy sleeping with you- that’s one point they aren’t lying on, but you’re never a girlfriend. You’re never the one they want everyone to know they are with. You don’t take pictures together, you don’t meet their friends. You are just something they do when they have time. And they tell you you’re beautiful.

They tell you you’re beautiful but they’re just unavailable. It was bad timing. You were too cold. But they’re not unavailable for the beautiful woman they are dating now, taking photos with, introducing to their friends. It’s not bad timing for the beautiful woman they pursue instead of you. The beautiful woman is not too cold, clearly her long hair, fine features, nice breasts are much warmer than anything you could give him.

They tell you you are beautiful and they certainly don’t want to hear you suggest you’re not. Because it doesn’t just uncover their lie- it uncovers their truth. That’s what comes down to it, you were pretty, but not pretty enough for them. They are just not deep enough to be with someone that is just not pretty enough, but has a big personality, is interesting, different, challenges their world. The fear is that if you uncover their lie they have to see it as well. No, you’re not beautiful, she is. And they don’t want you, because you are just not pretty enough. You might have everything else to offer, and they might laugh with you, stay up all night talking about their lives, hopes, and dreams with you, enjoy the little presents you show up with unexpectedly, marvel at what you introduce them to, really enjoy the fucking; but you’re just not enough to look at. She is, the one they left you to be with, or find. And they just don’t want that on their hands. That truth that no, you’re not enough for them to look at. Because who wants to admit to being superficial? We’re not supposed to be superficial. We are supposed to also be interested in what is beneath. But that’s just a lie as well.

They tell you you are beautiful and you hate the lie more than their leaving. Just leave. Go be with the woman that is beautiful, that meets your standards, but don’t stand there repeating “you’re beautiful” when you can both see through the bullshit. Because you both know if you were actually beautiful he wouldn’t be leaving. And these are all the things you’re not supposed to talk about. You’re supposed to accept that lie, and politely pretend to assume it just wasn’t meant to be, or something. And just quietly go away. You’re not allowed to say, No, I’m not, when you hear that lie. You’re not allowed to uncover the dirty truth between the two of you. Lay bare what is true. It’s rude, you know, to point out that you might be everything else, but you’re just not beautiful, and that makes you just not enough.

How it started may be hard to remember, but there’s no forgetting how it ended. When he said, “I don’t want to do this anymore,” I could have only imagined he meant grocery shopping, what we were doing at the time. But that’s not what he meant at all.

Everything stopped. Because what had just happened was the end of the life I had been building. And where was nothing to rail against. Nothing to fight for. Nothing left. He wasn’t willing to fight anymore and I couldn’t fight for the both of us. In that moment, he pulled everything from under me. What else could I say? “I don’t want to do THIS anymore,” and I dropped the basket filled with our groceries I had been carrying- It suddenly wasn’t our food anymore- I dropped the basket and walked out. He stopped loving me, and there was nothing left to do but walk out.

Of course once you walk out, you better have somewhere to go. I went home home, but it wasn’t my home anymore. I suddenly realized this. The home I had built over the last year wasn’t mine anymore. It was just some place I had been paying rent at, and filling with my things. Were they even my things now that they had been our things? Chosen and placed with love, with a dream for our life to come. But now, there was no life, the dream was over. And I woke up to a reality in which there was now yours and mine, and no ours. In a home which was no longer home.

It took two days to pack and move my clothes, books, dishes, art. Two days, and the only traces left of my being there were a couple pieces of furniture, a mirror, a dog seat in the back of his car. Two days, and he had cleared me out of his house and out of his life.Two days is how long it took to leave a home I had built. Two days and I no longer had a home. I stayed with my parents and I missed home. I missed doing everything in the rhythm we had grown used to. Our own world we lived in. Our world we shared- it took two days.

He changed the locks, and let me know I was no longer welcome in his house. Not that I would have entered that house after those two days. How could I? It was no longer the home we had made. It was just walls and doors and floors and windows. And nothing like the home I knew. There was nothing for me there after two days.

I don’t remember how the end started, but I do know it ended. Once sentence and two days, and a world, a story, a chance was all over.

He broke her heart in more ways than he would know and more times than she would dare to count. That was the simple nature of things. She was far too open with her heart and he was far too removed from his life. It would be kind to say they met in the middle. It would also be a lie. They orbited each other, unable to resist the pull of their shared gravity.

The ways they met were like that. They would meet, drift apart, and meet again. If you believed in something like fate or karma, you’d blame it on that. If you believed in their orbit, you would be a resistant romantic. They came into each others’ lives and perhaps never left, but only provided space momentarily as not to cause a cataclysmic event. They were like that. Volatile. Able to create a sudden explosion and then drown in their own black hole. It turns out the orbit kept them both from implosion.

He sat in her dorm room freshman year of college and was not awed, but perhaps astounded that someone, a contemporary of his, could be so brazenly self assured, even in the face of such obvious personal faults and flaws. She seemed oblivious of any flaw in herself, or she just didn’t give a shit about what anyone else thought. She seemed to hurl that feeling in the face of her audience. She had no time for coeds who cared more about creating the right impression than debating philosophical ideas. She was odd.

She was intense, and that would not change with the years. He would see her again, after he went to grad school and she went wherever she went, in a local package store in the city. She was with someone, so was he. Yet she stared at him with abandon, curious as to how she recognized him, not ashamed of her curiosity. Which is how he realized he, too, recognized her. After quizzing each other on peripheral friends they may have in common, undergrad was finally brought up, settling the matter, and each parted to their own paths.

He thought about her off an on after, catching the memory of her sitting cross-legged on her bed in her dorm, he seated across from her on her desk chair, some debate she was self-assuredly winning. She didn’t think of him just then. She quite forgot the moment.

A couple more years and a local bar and she stared directly into his open face again; the only thing about him that was ever open, his face. But open only in manner, not deed. She was always intense, he was always unapologetically reserved.

They dated, they fucked, he ended things, but only to come back into her orbit again, as only their story would allow. And they continued to orbit each other. She was intense, he was reserved, they fucked, they orbited. He would break her heart the dozen times he never let her in. He would never understand who she was. They orbited.

He always slept over. That was the thing; I could have ignored him if it wasn’t for the sleeping over. If he just left after, or if he left sometime in the middle of the night, so that I would wake up alone and a little pissed, I would have gotten over him. Writ him off as the asshole I knew he was. But he slept over. And he held me; often all night. So I was caught.

Caught in between abhorrence and adoration. He was fantastically brilliant. I didn’t want to punch him in the mouth when he spoke. He was a creative type. And he was good in bed. He was very good in bed. If you can’t fall in love with that, what can you fall in love with? It was true. I had fallen. Fallen for his proclivity to spend the night. Something I would come to recognize as just that, and nothing more.

We, as humans, tend to look for patterns that make sense of our world; and he slept over. So what did that mean? It had to mean something. Was it just about the sex? Or did he fall for me as I fell for him? Were we actually in it together? Did he sleep over because he wanted me as well? Was that what the pattern meant? Meaning in patterns. We all look for it. But we also should have learned the simplest explanation is most likely the right one. Haven’t we been taught that since middle school science? Look for the simplest answer because it is almost always the correct one- But, what if it meant something? Something more than just a simple desire to sleep with someone, for that night?

There wasn’t a complex answer. It was simple. He just liked to spend the night. It had nothing to do with his feelings for me. It had everything to do with where he felt like sleeping just then. Maybe that he was already comfortable and not inclined to disturb his comfort to get in his car and leave. Or maybe it was the idea of looking for parking in his neighborhood after everyone else was already home from work, and the streets were lined with cars. Or maybe he just liked to fuck in the morning, which we almost always did.

So, eventually, I realized the pattern was simple. And nothing more. No indication of his desire for me. Well, not for me in any capacity other than fucking.

That realization didn’t help me. It didn’t make me regain my stumble into a nonsensical devotion to him. I could convince myself all I wanted that it was just about sex for me as well. But I wasn’t that dumb. I could figure out his pattern. I wasn’t oblivious, especially not to my own weakness. Really, all he had to do was ask and I would have given him anything, everything. He slept over, and I fell.

I’m wearing my grandpa’s Indiana sweatshirt and my pearls. Jeans and no panties. I put my panties in my bag after we fucked, instead of putting them back on. They had come off over my ankle boots, so was I really going to put them back on after that?

When he made the quip about being in bed by 10:30 after a gallery show and a fuck, I thought he was joking. Woe is me. No. He dropped me right off. Those words, I don’t want you to feel like I am kicking you out, clearly lip service so better heard as he pulled up to my building. Kick me out of where? Your bed, or this delusion I had been in, one that he had voluntarily created. Some place where I thought it was ok to feel. To be honest. To… well, whatever.

We’re all liars, aren’t we? Just different things to lie about. Some of us lie to ourselves. We see more than is there. We trust when we should not. We believe so very truly, so very hard. We break our own hearts. And some of us have been lying to ourselves for so very long, the lie is just part of  who we are and so everything else in our lives is just a lie, too. Incapable of sharing the truth with ourselves, let alone an audience, we have no idea even how to begin with what is true. Eventually, you live the lie and cannot define one from the other. …Which one are we talking about?

So. I am here. Here I am. In my grandpa’s sweatshirt with the letters I N D I A N A emblazoned and wearing away. Growing older with each wash. Just wearing out. Tired, maybe of stating the same thing one. more. time. How many times can you repeat yourself, anyway? Eventually, it’s just pathetically clear: no one is listening. Drowned out by the monotony of their own lives. Told over and over, as a mantra or a meditation ritual. As if your lies will bring you piece of mind.

Pearls, and an Indiana sweatshirt, it’s perfect, really, for this yet new truth. It’s all so fucking boring. So fucking tedious. Every single lie, and you just know it’s coming. You can almost see it on the lips. You can write it for them. It’s all so goddamn fucking boring. So. Why?

That question just resonates. And makes me weep. I’m weeping while I’m fucking, just mourning the loss of anything real. True. Non-coerced in this short time we have. Just something- that is honest, intimate, shared.

We really just want to share it all, when it all comes down to it. Be able to share with someone that has stake in it. In you. That lays claim to you and yours. That truly gives a shit what happens. But, we’re too busy lying for that, aren’t we?