You always said I was pretty when I cried

“Wear something nice,” you always told me.

It was a casual comment and at first I didn’t think anything of it.  You were telling me we were going somewhere fancy and you wanted me to dress up.  There was probably a dress code or everyone else would be done to the nines and you didn’t want to feel out of place, so I did.

I picked out a nice dress, often I’d have to go shopping to find a new one.  That was never a bother though because I loved shopping.  It’s such a girl thing to say but it was true.  To have an entire store as your closet and anything in it I could buy?  That was a dream.  With your help of course.  You gave me your card and you told me to burn a hole in it.  It always came back smoking.

The shows would match.  Often something with a strap-y ankle and a thin heel.  You often commented on how much you loved my feet.

“You’ve got delicate toes.  They’re beautiful,” I’d hear you say often.  Typically when we were at the beach or I was lounging by the pool.

“Do I?”  I’d lean and look and hold them up while squinting and making an awful face to try to see what you were admiring.

“Of course.  Why would I say it?”  Your hand took my heel and cradled it.  You’d kiss the balls of my feet and let your lips linger.

There were even times when in the bedroom you would spend an extraordinary amount of time licking and sucking my toes.  You would worship them, which was a strange feeling.  Having your lips and saliva between my ticklish digits made me squirm but I tried to hold it in and let you enjoy yourself.
Eventually I decided not to take my shoes off when I knew we were going to have sex.  It stared off as a thought that I would let you undress my feet as you did the rest of me.  Over time it led to us making love with every piece of fabric stripped from my body except my shoes.  Those were wrapped around your back or your neck and the heels were hooked tight.

Making love.  It’s funny to call it that.  Nobody ever makes love.  They have sex like its a transaction or they fuck like its lust.  Making love is something that’s as fake as a movie star’s smile.  You never made love to me.  You fucked me in every way imaginable.

So I looked nice.  I looked good.  I dressed up.  You took me out and we met your friends.  I hated your friends.  I also hate the word pretentious because people use it more often then they should and not always in the right context, which made it perfect to describe your shitty friends.

I was young and you were older.  We never discussed by how much but the stares were always there.  The looks of judgement.  I could hear whispers.

“He’s got another one.”

“Poor dear, thinking she needs to bother carrying on a conversation.”

“I wonder if he has a membership to some company that rents these type out.”

“Look at her, she cleans up well at least.”

And that was it, the last one.  That’s why you always told me to wear something nice.  It’s why you gave me your credit card and never blinked at the dent I put in it.  I was a pretty little play thing for you.  An accessory like my Prada bag or my Hermes bracelet.  Sweet arm candy that you could suck the sugar out of at the end of the night.

I didn’t mind though.  I did but I didn’t let it bother me.  We were both getting something out of this relationship and I was mature enough to realize that.  If parading me around your stuffy-fuck friends was fine enough for you it was fine enough for me as well.  If the comments didn’t bother you then I sure as hell didn’t care what a bunch of 50-year-old men and women thought.  Jealousy is a bitch and so am I.

Sometimes I’d have some fun and act the part.  I’d play the bubbly, vapid imbecile and ask them ridiculous questions.  In my feigned ignorance I’d insult them after hearing their comments upon entering.

“Oh wow, you look so good for being so old.”

“I bet your wife used to look nice some time ago.”

“I’d ask if you want to dance but I don’t want you to hurt yourself.”

My giggling nature would cover any chance for them to respond and I’d turn and smirk as I walked away.

I should have hated you for leaving me alone with these vultures.  You should have been there with me to defend me.  You should have stood up for me.  But that’s not what this was, you and I.  We weren’t a team, we weren’t an item.  We were just two people who showed up at the same place together.  Two people who went home in the same car at the end of the night.

We always had sex after your parties.  That pretty dress I wore so perfectly would be a puddle on the floor in your bedroom.  The bracelet would be set carefully on the dresser and necklace would be as well.  Sometimes you would let me undo the buttons on your shirt as you looked up at me.  You’d toy with my panties or grab my ass.  I’d slap your face then press my knee into your crotch and listen to you gasp.

After that it was any guess where it would go.  It’d eventually lead to the same place but the path always changed.  The woods never quite looked the same and the sounds in the darkness were always different.  But always by the end we’d end up naked and laying on the sheets staring up at the ceiling.  Both of us would be trying to catch our breath.

“You know you could have hired an escort for the price of my dress and shoes alone.”

“I could have.”

“And you know they think I am one anyway.”

“Some do.”

“In a way I basically am, really, if you put it all out in bullet point form.”

You’d grunt a nodding sound on the sheet next to me and fling your arm onto my thigh and give it a squeeze.

“Is that all I am?  A prostitute?  A pretty girl to fuck after your snobby friends sniff me around for the night?”

“Of course not.”

“What’s the difference?”

“I never pay you.”

Your grip was tighter on my thigh and you pulled at it.  You pulled at me and there was a hunger vibrating in your chest that was making itself heard.

The words should have made me mad.  They did make me mad.  I was angry that you didn’t think more of me than a pretty toy to fuck.  I was angry that you didn’t want me around when there wasn’t some soiree to attend.  I was angry that you never paid me too.

I knew what this was though, so the anger didn’t stay with me.  It faded the same way your friends negativity faded when I turned away from them.  You were getting something and so was I.  One of us got a lovely evening in a world they would never generally be invited and I got to buy some pretty clothes.

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I’ll be incapacitated until you need me again

Call me winter.  Call me frost.  Call me ice.

I’m cold to the touch and you can always see my breath.
I’m a crisp February morning before the snow falls.

Do I spike your lungs when you breathe?
Do you hear the cracking sound under your feet?

It’s my heart
and my mind
and my sanity
and my everything

I can’t feel the tips of my fingers but it doesn’t really matter.  I don’t need them anymore.  I’ve gone to another realm where I’ll haunt your dreams and you’ll see shadows of me in the night.  I’ll cool your bed before you climb in it.  My spilled tears will turn to daggers of ice.

You will never melt me again with your touch.  Your eyes won’t be able to loosen my grip on the cold.  My tundra will be forever frozen.  My plains a blustery, frigid wasteland.

Congratulations.  I’ve finally become what you always said I was.  Now I’m going to bask in it.  Look out.  I’m coming for you first.

My mind never takes the turns my GPS suggests and I’m okay with that

Would you still fuck me if you knew I was this crazy?  Did you know the extent of how deep it flows?  Would you get as excited while my panties dropped?  Would your heart rush the same way as I climbed into your lap?  Would you stiffen the same was as I gripped you and guided you inside of me?  Would you?  Would you?

The next day as I lay in a dried mixture of sweat and sex and woke to see you dressing to leave and my mind ran a million questions from my lips, would you worry?

“Where are you going?”
“It’s early, why are you up?”
“What’s wrong?”
“What are you doing?”
“What did I do?”
“You’re leaving?”
“Is everything okay?”
“What’s going on?”
“Do you have to go?”
“Can’t you just stay?”
“Please.”

How hard is it to keep your eyes from rolling?  How hard are you when you look at my half covered naked body begging you to stay?  If you hadn’t fucked me so well last night would you have?  If I had not let you shoot your load all over my tits and made you keep it waiting until morning would you be so eager to run out?  If I made you wait would you have even bothered sleeping over?

I’ve never shown anyone the depths of my insanity, I don’t think they make equipment that can go spelunking that deep.  Although you do like to dress up before sex.

Do you like me or do you just enjoy my body?  Do you want to sleep nestled against my frame or is it just a matter of sticking your dick in my cunt until it throws up?  I’m sorry, did I ruin the mood with my poor choice of words?  Sorry.

You like the way I ride you.  I can see it in your eyes.  You love the way I taste.  I can hear it in your moans.  You want the way I fuck you.  I can feel it in your grip.  But will you still enjoy it all when I start to unravel?

Of course you will.  Crazy girls are fun to fuck as long as they’re hot, right?  You keep running your game and I’ll keep falling for the same tricks.  Stupid pretty girls are your favorite and there are an endless supply of them.

This is going to be a lot NSFW I think

I don’t usually write my titles until I have everything finished.  I like to let my mind wander and get back to it once I have a feel for what I’ve written.  The difference with this post is that I know where my mind is going to go.  I’ve been feeling it all weekend.

I need to be fucked.

Hard.  Deep.  Long.  Intensely.  Dirty.  Raw.  Rampant.  Explosive.  Ripping.  Mind-warping.  Crippling.  Destructive.  Breathtaking.

It’s been a while.  I don’t feel like sharing how long, but it’s been a while.  My own doing mostly because I’ve been so anti-man lately that I didn’t want to have any part of a dick near me.  But right now I’ll take anything if it knows what it’s doing.  It doesn’t even have to be a real, if there are any girl’s with a basket of toys and the right harnesses hit me up.

I know this is very forward and possibly abrasive.  Girls aren’t supposed to be so lewd, are they?  Well they are, and often.  We just don’t get to be like that when we want because it doesn’t fit into the box society places us in.

Which is even funnier because men love sluts.  They love girls who are promiscuous and adventurous sexually.  But they only love them jokingly and secretly.  When it comes to out in the open sexuality they don’t want girls to be like them.  They don’t want a group of women ogling a man and saying all of the things they like about him.  That doesn’t fit into their vision of a woman.

Women are the objects.  They don’t get to have the lusting feelings that a man has.

Girls are meant to be ashamed of their urges.  Girls aren’t supposed to use their bodies for their own free will, but only as a man sees fit.

I don’t know how I end up turning everything into a rant but it always happens.  I was going to ramble on and lament my sexual frustration but it’s turned into how I’m not even allowed to do that without feeling bad about it.  How I can’t say I just want to be fucked without one of two things happening.

  1.  I’m going to be called a slut or a whore and shamed for having natural sexual urges.
  2. I’m going to have men in my comments asking for my number or some way of privately contacting me.

Maybe this has been bothering me for a while and I just needed to get it out.  Maybe next time I’m feeling this way I’ll be able to unleash a proper sexually frustrated rant about how I need some vitamin D in the worst way.  Maybe then I can speak poetically on my desires to be sweating on the sheets as my muscles scream and my body contorts in ways to bring the feeling deeper.  Maybe I’ll even be able to enjoy it.

The sin of envy is too much fun to do alone

I’m sorry Father, for I have sinned.  My thoughts were impure.  My actions were not of grace.  I did not hold to the holy spirit and I invited the devil to commune with me.  I am of ill-tempered nature and cannot hold my tongue of words that should be kept still.  There is so much sin that I am bathed in it.

I don’t know how this works, this confession thing.  I’ve only seen it on TV.  Do I just tell you about all the dirty thoughts I’ve had?  What about the ones I’ve acted on?  Seems kind of kinky if you ask me.

What about the bad deeds I’ve done?  The misery I’ve caused?
Does any of it cancel out if it’s been done to me?  I’m not sure how this heaven thing works and I’m trying to figure it out before I die.  It could be at any minute, for any of us.

I want to be a good person.  Sometimes.  I want to be a good person to the ones who deserve it.  Sometimes there are people who don’t and I’m not sure why they should be allowed my smile and my embrace.  There are people who take the good in you, squeeze it out all over the floor and then walk through it.  Those people are awful and I don’t want to allow them any joy.

I want to hurt them sometimes, actually.  I want to be the harbinger of their demise.  I want to play along with them and make them laugh and feel merry.  When we’re all in the same place I’ll lock the doors and start the fire and laugh louder to drown out their screams.  I’ll ask if they want one more go.  One more time to hurt me before we perish.  I want to look in their eyes as they drift off and tell them I win.

I’ll gladly sacrifice myself to take down those who need to be.  I’m no angel.  I’m far from perfect.  I’ve done too many things to be let into heaven.  Now I want to that bad to do some good.  I want this naughty to be right.  I want my evil to vanquish evil.

Is that something we can do?  Set up a plan to wreck it all down?  Let me know Father because I’m keeping track.  I’ll tell you all about it each week.  It’ll be our little story time.  Just you, me and the holy freak.  I’ll press my lips against the screen and whisper all my secrets.  You won’t tell anyone, will you?

Why I am the way I am

What would you do if I told you that I needed you?  That I couldn’t live without you.  That I was on the floor in front of you waiting for you to say yes.

Yes, you’ll be with me forever.
Yes, you’ll be mine.
Yes, you’ll reassure me that there’s no one better.
Yes, until the end of time.

Would you run away?  Trying to put as much distance between us as possible.  To get away from that crazy girl.  The one with the eyes that spin and the stare that goes on all night.  Would you tell your friends about the crazy bitch that asked you about forever?  Would I be a story you told your wife about the bullet you dodged?

Would you ghost me?  Never answer me again.  Drop off the face of the earth and pretend we never knew each other.  Would you hide whenever you saw me out if we crossed each other’s paths?  Pretend you don’t remember me when we bump into each other at the store.

Or would you lie?  Would you tell me yes.  Would you feed my want and make it warm?  An embrace that makes me smile and cry tears of joy.  I’d be so excited.  I’d write your name on every piece of paper where I had a pen.  I’d be excited and text you whenever I could.  #finally
But it wouldn’t be forever.  You weren’t mine, not completely.  You were waiting until you found someone better.  The end of time was barely a few weeks.

So I never tell anyone I need them, because I’m a crazy bitch.
I can live without anything, because who needs that kind of pain.
I’ll never drop to the floor again and I don’t want to hear what you have to say.

No matter if it’s yes, no or maybe.
I’ll just keep hurting by myself.  At least I know I’ll never betray my own soul.

Everything is cold today and I can’t find my favorite sweater

I’ve lost a lot of love.  It feels like its gushing out of me.  I tried to put pressure on it but I don’t have the strength and my shirt is soaked.  It’s pooling around me.  My head feels really light.  I’m so sleepy.

I don’t like the way this feels, dying love.  It’s too much like real dying.  Like you’ll never see the person again because you won’t.  You may see someone who looks similar but the smell won’t be the same.  The taste.  The touch along the back of your neck.  It’s all gone.  They’re dead and you don’t know how to mourn them.

Everything is confusing.

Life.
Death.
Birth.

I don’t know how to navigate it without tripping over every branch and root.  I want to run but I can barely walk.  I want to fly but my wings are soaked in kerosene.  Please put away that lighter, you’re scaring me.

Maybe if we start over we can find a common ground.
Maybe if we push reset I can avoid making eye contact with you to begin with.