Thursday, July 22, 2010

she is a slut but x thinks it's sexy.


Men have a secret desire for, obsession with, them. “Why do you have “sluts” listed as a fetish of yours?” he asks me. “Oh” I respond casually, “I mean I like being called one in bed…” A look of understanding washes over his face and he nods before grinning, “you mean the private kind. The slut you are for your lover.” And I nod enthusiastically, giggling a little, before the conversation continues on down a path of discussing our mutual likes and dislikes about television shows.

It is another time with another man. A few weeks later. Yesterday. We are discussing the path we want our relationship to go down—talking about the big date we have planned for next Thursday, the charm bracelet he has bought me. He is speaking in a quiet, sweet tone with a hint of edge to it—he is horny. “You know I am all yours, right? I don’t ever want anyone else, just you.” I amused by this because we haven’t even had sex yet, and for that reason alone I know that he also probably means it. “I know” I answer, quietly. “And are you my little slut?” He asks. I giggle then, “yes. Your own private dirty little slut.” He is delighted by this answer; he tells me it is a very good answer, the best answer.

These encounters—as well as others—have led me to believe that most men harbor a secret desire for the “slutty girl.” You know what kind of girl I am talking about, which stereotype I am referring to. But there are also certain stipulations that come along with it, a certain kind of slut they want. Most men it seems want the kind of girl who is sweet and “normal” doing the day. For instance, the second guy I mentioned likes to spend hours in bookstores while we wander around trying to find books we are both interested in, a kind of game. He talks sweetly to me and suggests that I bake dessert if he gets took cook dinner, he wants to know my hopes and dreams, what my definition of “happiness” is. We bond over our mutual nerdiness and fear of people leaving us, we bond over knowing we will never do that to other unless it is mutual. We both have the same ideas of “fun”, which is a date spent exploring the city and ending with cuddling in bed. That is to say, we have very vanilla interests.

But in private—or even sometimes discreetly in public—things are different. He is less inhibited, and I as well. We have not had sex yet, but we have talked about it and I have learned a lot about him as person. The very core of him, the things he keeps hidden from hi friends and sometimes even himself; when we talk about these things, he stops calling me “sweetie” or “baby” and it is replaced by that word, “slut.” Lots of women object to this kind of talk, see it as degrading in some way, and that is there right. I however love it, it is a way of getting away from who I am, it makes me less inhibited.

But guys like this don’t want actual “sluts”—whatever that is. They want to have their cake and eat it too. It is why they ask the question, “why do you like being a slut” (answer: “because I know I am not one, because it is just for you”); it is why they ask over and over, “you’re my slut aren’t you? Just for me, yes?” They want to believe that it has been no one before them and will be no one after them. They want to believe that you have never gave these same responses to any other man, that he is the only one who you have played this game with. It is why they buy you tokens of affection, call you pet names, kiss you gently on the forehead or on the side of your lips while looking at museum displays, it is why they stare at you in that funny way when you’re twirling pasta on your fork. Because they believe that they are the only ones who have ever been privy to that other side of you; the only ones who has ever felt your hand lightly on them while you examine the mummy display, or browsed albums in a music store.

I know I should believe that it’s terribly unfair and misogynistic to live up to being the Good Bad Girl. Lots of women don’t—they pick a side and wave the flag proudly, ignoring or shaming the other. I don’t blame them, nor do I judge them. However, there is something so fun—so utterly delightful—in choosing to be both at once. In talking dirty to him in my favorite Spider-man t-shirt, the coyness of it all that drives him wild; to be sweet and tangy at the same time.

And that is the true power. I do it as much for my own joy, my own secret desire and obsession, as his.

Sunday, July 18, 2010

i always thought that if i held you tightly, you would always love me like you did back then.

I am not sure if you were the first person to break my heart. Not because I think it might’ve been broken before you, but because in reality, you were never mine and I was never yours. So really, how could you have possibly broken my heart? After typing that I realize it’s all the more possible that you did in fact break my heart, because it’s always the things—people—we can’t have that hurt us the most.

You were different from some hopeless crush. You were different because you were my perfect dream come to life—intelligent, funny, geeky, into the same things as me, cute in that completely nerdy way of yours, and most all, I thought you cared. I thought you cared because you told me you did, because you said we were friends and that I could talk to you about anything. Something inside told me to hold back, but I also believed you and trusted you with more of myself than I’d ever allowed myself to do with another person before. I trusted you with a lot of my fears, and you were also kind and considerate of my problems that weren’t really problems, and then you would confide in me how much you wanted to fuck me. I guess that was to be expected, right? Our entire friendship was based on the sexual attraction and you deserved to get off after listening to me whine for half an hour, right? Right?

And you know, I thought I could handle that. I really, truly, honestly did. Nevermind the fact that I am a hopeless romantic who—despite all the wonderful things I have to be grateful for—goes into a dark depression when I think about ending up alone. Becoming an old lady whose youth was wasted and who has nothing to show for it, not even a (mythical) great love. I should’ve stopped when I realized I was committed to you in my heart, when you were only committed to me in your horniness. I should’ve stopped when I built my world around you when I knew you hadn’t and would never do the same thing for me.

A couple of months ago I became terribly sad—not that I am not terribly sad often, just that it seemed to last longer at that time. My sex drive diminished quite a bit, and it seemed like instead of venting to you and then flirting with you, saying the dirty things to get you off, I was just sad and more than a little angry. You stopped talking to me then for sometime. I was angry and I was hurt, I didn’t feel used though, because I knew that was what our…friendship? Agreement? Whatever, was. But I did feel really stupid; stupid for believing that perhaps I really was a friend to you first, and not second, if that.

And then he came along. He reminds me of you. He has bits of your sense of humor, your nerdiness (but not your geekiness), understanding me. But the difference with him is that he doesn’t pretend to want to know me for the sake of fucking me. He genuinely wants to know every part of me, to make our bond stronger, to grow, to fulfill one another. I was very scared when I first started talking to him. It was on a “getting to know you” level, but there was immediate sexual tension there. He said he wanted to know me, that he didn’t mind listening, and I immediately had flashbacks to you and it scared me so much. I don’t think you know how badly you fucked me up. I was going to use the word “realize”, but I don’t even think you’re aware that you hurt me at all. I was so afraid to trust anyone else after you.

After constant reassurances from him that I could tell him anything, I opened up like never before. Even more than with you, I bared my soul to him. The next couple of days he didn’t contact me, and of course I was freaking out. I cried and sent him an email asking how he could do that to me, how when I’d told him how much someone had hurt me in the past. How you had hurt me in the past. I told him he could’ve just told me he was tired of listening to my problems and that it was not something he’d signed up for. All of my fears and inadequacies were rushing through my mind; I imagined I must have meant to him what I did to you, even though our relationship was not so heavily sexually. He responded back to me the next morning—I don’t know what I expected. But I got a somewhat long and genuine response—him apologizing for my tears, promising that he’d never go so long without contacting me again, and other things. He’s made good on that promise—when he can’t talk to me he sends me a quick message or email letting me know why. This is (amongst others) where he differs from you.

I was going to say “in a good way”, but then I thought about it, and you really aren’t obligated to listen to my problems, deal with my neediness, and put up with my batshittery. And neither is he, he just sees that it’s worth it—he thinks all the other things about me outweigh my issues. And he in fact wants to work through them with me…we have already made so much progress. I am so grateful to him.

You tried talking to me a couple of weeks ago. I was antagonistic and unapologetically bitter—because of your treatment of me, and because it was that fateful day I’d been crying over him all day. I figured my charm had long since failed to…well, charm you, and so I was honest. By this time you were just someone who’d left pieces for someone else to pick up; not all of it was my fault, some of it was yours. One thing was clear: there was no reason to be kind. You seemed a bit put off and told me goodnight, I went to bed a bit later. I thought that it was the end of whatever it was we had left, and I was really OK with that. I’d spent so many weeks wondering what I’d did wrong.

And then tonight you tried talking to me again. I was more receptive. It’s kind of funny, it is almost a mirror situation—I haven’t talked to him today, either. But I trust him enough to know it has nothing to do with me and that something probably came up, and he has healed the wounds you left so well that it no longer pains me to think about you. We chatted for a bit and I couldn’t stop myself from talking about him to you—maybe to prove that I can be happy and someone does want me, all of me and just not what is conveniently or easy to process for them. And also because he makes me completely happy; you asked me if he was, “boyfriend material” and I responded with, “yes” and the biggest smile. You told me that was great, and proceeded to tell me how you’d been thinking about fucking me for the last two weeks. I laughed a little and changed the subject, you asked if I was “off limits” and I responded with, “only if I want to be” but more on that in another blog. We got off almost like old times—you and your sweet-talking and me not really knowing what to say. I got lost in the moment a bit and confessed that I’d missed fucking myself while thinking about you. You told me you’d missed thinking about me as well, and that’d you’d missed how eager I always was. When I came, I told you it was my best orgasm in awhile.

What I didn’t tell is that my thoughts were not solely focused on you as they’d once been. What I didn’t tell you is that my thoughts willingly strayed to him quite a bit, that I am not sure which one of you I was thinking about when I orgasmed. I also didn’t tell you that the reason I was so relatively quiet is because I was no longer as eager; that the eagerness came from a place of genuine lust and dedication to you. But it doesn’t matter, you don’t’ have any right to know those things. I have no obligations to you. And you none to me, I have finally learned this.

Before you left to go to bed, you said we’d “talk soon” with a smile. I responded with a simple goodnight and returned the smile, but I didn’t care too much about talking soon. Do you know what that means? My days used to be nothing more than a countdown until you, and now…now they are so far from that. “Talk soon” as if you expect me to wait around for you, be around for when you want me, be the girl I was. But I’m not anymore. I don’t think I’ll ever be her again for you. And I am so happy about that.

I told him there was no one else I wanted more than him, no one else who could even compete a little, that everyone else completely bored me. And it was true. True until you contacted me tonight and you did not bore me at all, that even though you are no competition and I do not want you more, you are the only other person who makes me so excited and so wet so easily. The only other person who makes shy giggles erupt from my lips, who makes me cover my face with my t-shirt like a little girl, the only other person who turns me on so much.

And I don’t even think I’d change it if I could. And we both know it.