I used to call myself a slut. I can see how wrong that phrase is now. I was a young girl who wanted real… true… love… I wanted that fairytale love. Unfortunately, I was blessed with the looks of a slutty librarian and from my point of view; slutty librarians attract the worst kind of guys.
Growing up I didn’t have parents who were very “active” in my life. They worked their asses off to make sure we had a roof over our heads and food on the table. But, at the end of the day they were worn out and looking for their own salvation. We all have our own demons and traumas, we all want the same things in life but in different packages.
I wasn’t exactly taught what self respect was, or how to tell the good guys from the bad. I didn’t know that most if not all guys think with their dicks and will do whatever for them. I still have yet to meet one who actually wants to get to know ME versus desperately rushing to get to know my body.
I’m turning 36 in 2 months and I can honestly say I’ve never had good sex. I’m too fucked up in the head to enjoy it now. I’ve been sexually used and abused since the beginning of my adolescence. I was desperate to please, eager to be what people wanted me to be. I have had too many questionable experiences to count.
Its only taken me 36 years to finally say “What about me?”. Where are the guys lined up to please me? And I’m not talking sexually. I find no pleasure in a stranger who knows nothing about me, who has no true feelings for me other than trying to find my clit and touching me too hard for their own pleasure and my own personal pain.
Nobody taught me that sex and love are two very different things. I Think many will never learn that but I’ve always been very good at spotting patterns. The problem is sometimes the pattern has to repeat itself far too many times before I can spot it. The damage is done and it’s quite extensive in this instance.
I have finally stopped the pattern but I fear there is no hope for me now. I’m grown sick and tired of guys hitting on me. All I see is them wanting a piece of me, a taste of me for their own indulgence. They don’t have the slightest clue who I am, who I was, who I want to be, yet they want me and they have no desire to get to know me, only my body. I’m instantly turned off by any man that hits on me. I can’t help but see them as dogs. It’s like they think if they have a nice dick or a big house then I should be hot and bothered for them.
I want more,
I fear I want something that doesn’t exist,
Something I’m not capable of at this point;