The Desire To Be A “Slut”.

This is going to be a difficult entry for me to write, so forgive me if it is not as well thought out as may be desired.

I have demons. Obviously, right? Everyone has their own, and being in the BDSM lifestyle means absolutely nothing when it comes to the presence of demons. I will say, that from the people I know and/or read about, it seems to be more common for sub-types in the lifestyle to cope with/overcome their demons.

I don’t know if I ever will.

Since I don’t know where to start, I’ll begin where it started last night with Master.

I feel dirty about some of the things I want. In the bad way. I feel evil. Worthless. All those good phrases.

Master began inquiring about my fantasies and the history thereof last night – I am upset that it took Him a year to even bother because this would have been infinitely easier for me to deal with had He not been a muppet and waited so long. But that’s His perrogative, I suppose.

I don’t lie to Master. I could, I’m a fabulous actress. I just don’t. Even when it makes me break down into hysterics and tears for hours and make me want to slip back into self-destructive behaviours.

Master sometimes – often – treats me very much like a patient of a therapist, when He plays the therapist. I HATE when He does that with something that I’ve expressed to Him makes me insecure. And my fantasies – they are demons – and they make me very insecure. The type of insecure where I’d rather die and disappoint Master than be forced to struggle through another breath.

There’s no good reason for how frightened and terrified and disgusted of my fantasies I am. It’s not particularly social, or even familial. I’m sure it has a little bit to do with my rapes. It’s based extensively on judgements I formed myself, at very young ages. My mother was definitely a contributing factor: I have viewed her as a slut since I was probably 9. Mostly because of the men who would come and go (including her best friends husbands more than once) and give her drugs or what have you. Once your powers of cognition put together what’s going on and why exactly you’re forced to raise yourself for as long as you can remember, it’s easy to become angry. And I was very angry, for a very long time.

As a result, I have a special hatred for “sluts”. If I were to put it to words, I would say that I feel they are “stupid”, “worthless”, “threatening”, “don’t contribute to society”, et cetera. The thing is, on a rather high leve, I’m aware that none of that is really true.

Some of my best friends are, in my mind, fucking sluts.

And sometimes, in the secret of my mind, I condemn them for that, and feel that I am “higher” than they.

I am not drop dead gorgeous. I am not modelesque and thin. I do not have perfect breasts, legs, or abs. I am not exotic. I do not exude self confidence. I do not believe in my own self worth. These are all qualities that I attach to the majority of my self defined “sluts”. I am jealous of these things, all are things that I desire, and have worked harder than most of the people who possess these qualities could imagine, and will probably never be any of these things.

So I am jealous.

This hatred I have for the actions of “sluts”; the women who are not afraid to use their sexuality for their own purposes, whatever they may be, the women who want sex to be completely about their pleasure, the women who are worshipped by men, then makes the fact that I secretly want all of these things makes me want to vomit.

I think about the fact that I fantasize about having sex that is completely about my pleasure.

I think about the fact that I fantasize about having many pairs of hands pleasuring all of my erogenous zones.

I think about the fact that I fantasize about having multiple men driven with such desire by my presence that they can’t keep their hands off of me.

I think about the fact that I fantasize about getting off – multiple times – without having to worry about getting a man off.

Inside, to an extent, I hate men. Because I am not a slut, not modelesque, and they will never, ever do any of those things for me. The only women who get to have the things that I desire so badly are the “sluts”. I hate it. I feel like it’s not fair. I try to be sexy, and to be thin. No matter how anorexic, how exercise obsessed, how diet and diet pill following I get, I’ll never be the kind of woman who gets those things. I am simply not sexy enough, not desirable enough.

So the only protection I have from feeling like I am the lowest, least deserving creature on the face of the planet, is making myself feel like I am “better” than the women who get all those things that I desire so badly.  So I tell myself – am honestly convinced – that I think all those things are wrong.

I believe that I think being confident in your sexuality and using it to your advantage is wrong because (even if I tried I couldn’t) it’s dangerous with the diseases out there, and wrong to play with peoples emotions through their bodies.

I believe that I think that relishing in the desire you inspire in others and holding it over them is wrong because (I can’t inspire desire like that) then you’re nothing but a “slutty tease”.

I believe that I think that expecting men to concentrate on your own pleasure and orgasms is  wrong because (none ever have for me and none ever will because I’m not sexy enough, I don’t inspire that kind of desire) it’s supposed to be about the pleasure of the man.

I am at such a deeply rooted impasse that I feel I will never, ever get over it.

I hate myself.

Even though I know I’m deluding myself about SOMETHING, I don’t know which part it is.

I can’t fix it.

I can’t make it hurt any fucking less.

~ by beauteousthrall on August 12, 2009.