last night i dreamed a man i fucked loved me
It would be so easy to bait for humiliation - how stupid I must be, dreaming someone could love a ruined whore like me! I can already smell the boring, brain-drained comments coming. Unfortunately for my so-called kinks, I am actually extremely endearing. Men get very attached to me. It’s not a far-fetched fantasy, this dream in which one told me, “I know we’ve just been doing this casually, but I think I’m in love with you.”
Still, my immediate reaction upon waking and recalling the dream was shame flushing up my neck to my face. A sweet flattery revoked by my alarm.
In real life, between rounds at a Hampton Inn, I told him how lately I’ve been enjoying what I call my indie sleaze lunch — two cigarettes and a Diet Coke while reading in a nearby cemetery on my work break. “There’s that emo cutter whore I love,” he’d joked, but his voice faltered on the last word, or maybe I imagined it did.
Did he feel he’d betrayed too much affection? Or did he fear I’d take him seriously?
I did take him at his word when his cock was in my mouth and he said, “Baby, nobody does it like you, and it’s not even close.” And when he moaned, covering his face with his hands while I choked out my little whimpers and cries around him in my throat, “The way you sound makes me feel so evil, but it’s so fucking good.”
Men fall for me all the time. Whether my demented sense of self-worth lets me believe their love is real or lasting is a different story, but I always believe them when they praise my sexual abilities. Maybe that’s the stupid ruined whore in me.
I showed him my reddit account, and the small possibility that he might read this also embarrasses me. I feel the rush to assure him I’m reasonable, I’m cool. To say, hey ____, if you’re reading this, don’t worry, I know it was just a dream. I’m not projecting anything onto you, please text me when you’re back in town, we can have more fun. I’ll make you feel so good! You can do whatever you want to me.
Isn’t that how you get men to love you? mocks the ancient story. I yawn in its face.
A memory floats to the surface as I’m writing this. I’m with a long-ago boyfriend in his bed. He’s on top of me, inside of me, gentle after lots of kissing. It’s the first time we’re having sex. We are shadows moving tenderly in the moonlight when I say, “Wait.”
He holds still, asks what’s wrong.
“Nothing,” I say. “I just want to really feel you inside me.”
He exhales shakily, then says, “I feel like I’ve been waiting all of my life for someone to say that to me.”
I shouldn’t share this here. One of my pearls cast before swine and all that but hey, we all roll around in the same mud, and I know every person whose eyes scan this post, cock in hand, seeking some filth to stroke to, holds within him his own jewels. Moments of sacred intimacy or sudden, solitary beauty that caught in your throat, expanding your chest with a substance more vital than oxygen until you exhaled your reverence: I’ve been waiting all of my life for this.
What do you get from posting? What are you looking for? I’m often asked these questions and well, it varies. Abuse, praise, attention, exorcism above all. To empty it out and feel in some small way seen. But I think if I could name the response I most wish for right now, it would be that you would share one of your sacred secrets or memories here. That you would return the gift, and show some part of yourself to me.
Someone I was chatting with for a bit once commented on how I don’t seem to hate men, and it’s true. Because of and despite it all, I love men. Because of and despite it all, I love the world.
You can do whatever you want to me! This is my scarlet letter, my shame writ into bravado then transmuted into need although, as with all symbols, it only gestures at the truth. Still, men respond to the invitation with their own blood-thirsty needs. They love to see my eyes come alive with pain and well up with tears, love my futile fighting or regressed babbling, love when my soul finally slips out of my body, surrendering it limp and unattended for their use. It’s a thing of beauty to wreck a beautiful thing, I get it. But god, to be kissed once again with some reverence in moonlight, my face cradled above my battered body. To hear, I’ve been waiting for this, for you, stay here, stay with me. Despite it all, because of it all, I love you — I think I’d truly come undone at my ragdoll seams.