When lust takes over, just shut your eyes and hope for the best

I’m a slut.

I indulge often and diligently, and I don’t care who knows. In my mind, you can never have enough. I’ll pick it up anywhere, as long as it’s a short transaction; and once you discover it, it’s only human to crave it more than once a day. Anybody who says they don’t is lying to you, or their blood doesn’t flow fast enough.

Tall or short, lust is blind. Some claim each experience has a different flavor when you close your eyes. Fruity, tangy, acidic — I say they’re all the same after that initial dive inside. I appreciate beauty in any physical form, but ideally, I want it from a rich source. If you don’t play your cards right, it can be an expensive habit.

As a ground rule, anything skinny is unlikely to have a lot of substance. Too artificial, image conscious, afraid let its dark side show. Watered-down is only a good thing at the times when you’re not looking to get too attached. Like late at night, when you need some sleep after; mid-day, when you’re expected to appear presentable in public; or, if you’re just desperate.

The multi-dimensional types are more likely to make you lose control. You might end up with liquid dripping uncontrollably off the corners of your mouth and leaving a tell-tale stain on the spot where your shirt hits your clavicle. The residual smell wafts directly up into your nose all day. Your eyes roll as you’re reminded of your impulsive decisions. You pray to God it’s not so strong that your neighbour can judge you.

There are times I like to do it with my eyes open and in broad daylight, so I can be hyper-aware of my senses; I get off on the idea of people watching me feed a nasty habit that my mother warned me against. Satisfying myself next to a window, nose practically pressed against the glass, is best, giving eyes to passers by as my tongue burns from swallowing too fast. A guilty conscience eventually overthrows even the most shameless sinner.

When the burning lasts, you know you got a bad one. I consider myself a good judge of character, but if you want your skull flipped, never assume you’re getting quality over quantity. Luckily, there are pills to ease the sting. I’ve even spotted a doctor or two tiptoe-ing, in sunglasses, down Aisle 5.

I’ve never had it with a doctor, but it’s a common fetish to take relations outside the office. I imagine it would be really sexy if they whispered all the side effects while we stared into each other’s eyes and fell into a simultaneous rhythm of lifting and lowering. Throw some ice cubes into the mix or crank the heat up: there’s a new way to get your temperature taken.

It’s also natural to be twice as attracted to the object of your affection when it belongs to someone else, especially if it’s uniquely embellished or smeared in lipstick. You wonder if they’re good. You wonder if they could take you higher. One always wants what one can’t have.

If all else fails, the telltale sign is when you shit. Not during the act, obviously, but afterwards, when your entire body convulses and the sensation is so overwhelming you have no choice but to get rid of some of it. Words can’t express how you feel, and maybe they’re not supposed to. Crutches are ugly; so are confessions.

Here’s mine: I’m obsessed with drinking coffee. I’d fuck it if I could.


Born and raised in New York City’s Greenwich Village, Ali Weiss is an actress, photographer, and creative writer. In other words, a “professional liver” (her words) or “overactive and underpaid” (her parents’). When she’s not making bad decisions, she’s reflecting on them with booze and hip-hop. You can follow her at or

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