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The Slut Conundrum: Part 2

January 26, 2012 by Nikki Blue

I’m often amazed when I read Twitter bios and time lines at the number of women, most of them very young who claim to be significantly sexually experienced. They ask men in general, scratch that, they demand to be called a slut or a whore and probably don’t even realize when they’re being treated like one. Let’s be realistic here for a minute though, we all have an inner slut. It’s what we choose to do with that fragment of our personality that sets us apart from everyone else.Early on in my junior high career, ‘slut’ was a mark that was branded on my chest like a scarlet letter. I didn’t hang my head in embarrassment or see it as a curse that would leave me tarnished. I saw it as a blessing, a gift if you will, and like any good craftsman, I honed my skill until I was one of the best. I carried myself in such a way that the guys I had sex with had respect for me and never treated me like a slut, which drove the ‘good girls’ to a new height of hate driven jealousy. Not only did they despise me because I was beneath them on the social food chain, but also because their boyfriends couldn’t get enough of me.Truth be told, there are situations when I adore being called a slut, but that permission is not given freely. It has to be earned. When the moment is right and the mood takes on a certain tone, it can be downright hot. But there is a tremendous difference between behaving like a slut in the bedroom and being treated like one as a person. Which brings me to the infamous Mr. Kryptonite himself.In the weeks we spent getting to know each other, I loved it when Mr. Kryptonite would tell me he was going to make me his dirty little slut. Quite frankly, I wanted to be, and the desire to drop straight to my knees to please him was overwhelming. Throughout our unconventional courtship however, we had normal conversation about his life and mine. He would ask about my day and about my children. It seemed we were friends. That all came to a screeching halt when we finally were able to satisfy each other’s physical needs, and even though that afternoon was an experience I’ll never forget, I felt something I’d never known when sex was involved.

I felt shame.

He held the hotel room door open for me to make my exit and kissed me on my cheek before he said, “Thank you for the sex.” That stung a little. Actually, it stung a lot and as I walked out alone in my dress and heels, I felt judged. It was a new and awkward feeling that I wasn’t quite sure how to process, so I blew it off. The muddied feelings of elation and heaviness remained.

Our communication remained unchanged after our fuckfest, and I wanted to see him again. I knew he was bad for me, but he’d dug his hooks deep into my skin and he knew it. By then I realized he’d never stopped looking for playmates like I had. He’d lied to me. He was a man who wanted it all, and he felt he was entitled.

When I figured out that I’d been played so perfectly, I told him to “fuck off.”  I didn’t hear from him for months. Then, out of the blue, months later, he began sending me texts claiming that he often thought about me on my knees in front of him. I didn’t think twice when I fell back into lust with my kryptonite.

Our texts escalated to a familiar pattern of raunchiness and we made plans where I would once again be his dirty little slut. We made arrangements to meet on a Sunday morning at a hotel near the airport before his early afternoon flight for a business trip. He told me in explicit detail how he would make me his again, and I wanted it.

The day before our morning tryst was to take place he sent me a text. “Are you ready for your protein shake?” I was stunned. For the first time ever, someone had succeeded in making me feel like a slut. I thought about our conversations that had taken place during our brief reunion, and it didn’t take me long to come to the conclusion of what our relationship was to him. There was no more flirting, no more curiosity about my wants and needs. I had become a booty call, a slut. I wasn’t even his slut anymore. I was just a slut.

I thought about calling him a morally corrupt ass who was flaunting an inflated ego to hide his small cock, but that would’ve been a lie. The last part anyway. Instead, I chose to rise above it and ignore his texts and avoid his calls. I vowed that no matter how apologetic he was or how his carefully articulated words caressed my clit, he would never get into my pants again. It turned out that Mr. Kryptonite was nothing more than an image of what I thought I wanted. A misguided dominant who used me expressly for his pleasure while not caring a thing about mine. I would have willingly been his perfect slut again and kept him wanting more, but he made one irreparable mistake. He made me feel like one.

Fucker.


1 Comment »

  1. [...] to do so. I created a brutally honest profile on a dating site expressing my needs and within days, Mr. Kryptonite was hot on my heels. He claimed to be the Dominant I needed, saying all the right things as he [...]

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