• this is a fictional account written in the first person.
There’s something about me. Something that draws men to me. I honestly don’t know what it is. I’m not a traditionally beautiful woman. I’m not going to win a beauty pageant. But I’ve been treated like a sexual object since long before it was appropriate.
The first man who treated me like a sexual object was my eighth grade social studies teacher. At first, he took an odd interest in my life. Always finding reasons to talk to me during the hour I served as office helper. I thought he just felt sorry for me, because all the kids made fun of me for being ugly. And when I was standing in a group of kids and he said hello only to me, I thought he was just being nice. But, he crossed the line when he was sweaty during track practice and used my body as a sweat rag.
Then there was the doctor who administered my sports physical when I was fourteen years old. He didn’t use the veins in my wrist or my neck to take my pulse. He used the vein that ran along my vagina and mumbled, “I bet you didn’t know you could take your pulse down there.” Maybe there was a legitimate reason for doing that, but no other doctor has taken pulse in such a manner.
At my first real job working fast food, the manager singled me out as a target for harassment. He’d tell employees to grab my ass. One employee even grabbed me from behind and emulated sodomy in front of that manager. I blacked out and smacked my attacker. I lasted a month at that job. I was so scared to pick up my last paycheck that I brought my dad with me.
This is a trend that has followed me to every job except my last one. At my first professional job, my manager suggested I date a potential client to convince him to use our firm. At another job, my boss joked about what I a slut I was on more than one occasion. I wore suits every day and was married. I didn’t do anything to warrant it.
The men I’ve dated are the same way. I have trouble getting a man who treats me as anything more than sex on a stick. I have absolutely no trouble getting a date. The men act so excited to go on our first date. And the second. They act as if they really like me. And when I sleep with them, they tell me I’m the best they ever had. They tell me how sexy I am. How much I turn them on. But, I can’t get a man to choose me to be the girl to bring home to momma.
I never learned my lesson. I believe them when they say they’re looking for something steady. I buy into their excitement. I smile at their compliments. Then we start having sex. The smiley face texts become fewer and farther between. They’re suddenly very busy and can see me less and less often. They can’t handle dating someone with a child. Or as my last crush said, “I think you need someone who you don’t have to worry about what he’s doing all the time.” Which meant he was dating other people. I thought I was the only one.
And then I met him. His name’s Mark and he’s my dark chocolate prince. He told me all the things I wanted to hear. But unlike the other guys, he elaborated. He didn’t just say it as a matter course. He’d just been dumped by a crush too. He complained that everyone is always looking for something better. No one gives the person they’re with a chance. They never want to give up on the idea that there’s something better out there.
He didn’t kiss me until our third date and it was only after I practically jumped him. He wanted to show me he respected me. I couldn’t take it anymore. The anticipation was killing me. I wanted to be disrespected.
I was bold. I straddled him and kissed him deeply. Gave him a lap dance. Nibbled on his earlobes and told him just how badly I wanted him.
He responded by lifting me up and kissing me as he walked to my bedroom, my legs still wrapped around him.
He laid me down on the bed and got on top of me. I straddled him. Felt him hard between my legs.
He didn’t stop kissing me as he slowly took off my shirt. I helped him with my bra. He rubbed his thumbs across my nipples, making me moan and want to undress him. I lifted his shirt. I tugged at his jeans. He stood and took off his clothes. I stared, mouth agape. Stared at his muscular arms. His chest muscles. His six pack abs. Stared into his eyes as he took off my pants and my panties.
He pulled me to the edge of the bed so that my legs were hanging over the edge. He got onto his knees and began to massage my clit with his thumb as he put two fingers inside of me.
I couldn’t stop saying his name, “Mark, Mark, Mark…”
He suckled my clit and continued fingering me. I held his head and forced his tongue deeper until I felt an explosion of pleasure. My pussy pulsated against his fingers.
That was the first time I came.
He flipped me over. Told me arch my back. He pulled my hair as he plunged deep inside me. He slapped my ass.
I begged, “Harder, harder.”
He gave me what I wanted but stopped as I was about to come again.
I begged for more but he refused, “It’s your turn.”
I climbed on top of him, too turned on to be nervous. I began rocking against him slowly, but he wanted me to go faster. I used the bed as a trampoline. I bounced high, leaving his dick only to slide back down it.
I left him unable to articulate a sentence, “Holy shit! Where did you…oh my god!”
He grabbed my legs to stop me. He flipped me onto my back so quickly I gasped with surprise. He pinned my legs down and entered me again.
He hit my magical spot. That spot way deep inside that is seldom reached, but when it is, makes me have the most intense orgasms of my life. And he hit. Repeatedly. With force.
I screamed as I came the second time. He worked me for a few more minutes before he came himself.
He gives me the best sex I ever had. He’s the only person I’ve ever met who can handle my sexual appetite. He loves that I stay wet for hours. I’m the only person who’s ever been able to handle his appetite.
It’s been eight months and he hasn’t left me. There have been no lame excuses. No distancing. He’s become my best friend.
Most importantly, he’s taught me to embrace my sexiness. He’s given me confidence. He’s taught me the power of sexiness. He encourages me to own it rather than hide from it. And I’ve learned that no one messes with a woman who feels powerful and confident and owns her sexiness.
I’m no one’s victim anymore.