Well I’m twenty now and I have this new insecurity. I am not a teenager anymore, and therefore I cannot lure old men between my legs and trick them into loving me and providing me with attention and care. Surprisingly, I’m finally okay with this and I’ll get to that later.
It’s always been easy to **** out the sick and twisted ones. The ones who see me as a young ****** and an even younger, chubbier, brighter face.
My eyes flicker with lust and my heart beats hard with joy at the guilty desire they feel as their hands grip all over me, keeping me safe and warm.
I was fourteen when I was first kissed by a man over three times my age. The memory of his rough salt and pepper moustache against my soft mouth kept me going in the late nights for years after. It was shortly after that I came up with my own algorithm on how to keep my daddy issues at bay.
I tempt them slowly, show my childish side and innocently touch them a little too much, tell them just a little too much. I’ll serenade them, quietly singing, “c’mon you know you like...little girls...” until they’re heated and ashamed as they follow me toward the back door and into a secret lust they were always too afraid to explore.
They have to stay with me. To them, I’m a precious jewel. A rare specimen that actually finds them **** and appealing. A young “innocent” who might not know that they’re mediocre at *** and emotionally unavailable due to their divorce. But I know. I always know.
They think they’re in control, that they’re sick for doing this to someone who has barely any experience.
In reality, I’m using them to curb my hungry codependency. They’re like a quick fix to me. I get to feel enticing and special, I get to punish the man who hurt me in my past by pleasuring and leaving the similar men of the present.
I scream out, “hurt me, Daddy, please!” The complete opposite of what I cried out as a child. Might even add some tears for maximum effect. I’m asking them, begging them, to please hit me...torture me.
My bruises are my trophies. Because this time I’m in control of the one abusing me. It makes me feel safe.
Then when they get too attached, they get vulnerable. I see this vulnerability and I get scared of not having someone to control me and take care of me. I get disgusted with what I’ve done, and I leave like an echo in the night (sorry Dave!).
Now here’s the weird turn. You, you are not like the rest of these men. I stumbled across you hoping to rob you of your money. But I fell hard, I fell deep. I became obsessed with you, Mr. Nine Years Senior. You don’t look at me with those sly eyes and tell me stories of the war and belittle me until you’re inflated and ready for bed. You don’t like me because I’m young. In fact, it scares you sometimes. But I think that’s so fun.
I am not in control of the situation. You could leave me at any time, I could leave you at any time. I don’t need to throw myself at you or tease you to get your attention. You give it to me regularly, willingly.
You say: “You are grown. You can make your own decisions”. But you also say: “Kids your age shouldn’t be so perverted”.
You say: “What a pathetic little *****”. But you also say: “I respect you. I understand. I do take you seriously. You are no different from me”. I no longer feel craved, I feel loved.
I’m not gonna lie, the gray in your beard and the slight lines around your eyes get me hot and I love to be cruel about your bad back and aching knees. The way you talk about impregnating me lights me up like nothing else but I say “give me five years!” And we laugh and laugh at your desperation to settle down and my desperation to stay your only baby. But you’re different.
You’re not the man I let touch me in high school, you’re not the divorcée I ****** once in Seattle, you’re not the anonymous perv I danced for online, or the endless boring boys and girls my age that I droned on with. You’re somewhere in the middle, and for that, Mr. Nine Years Senior, you’ve perfected my deepest taboo.
This is my final submission, take me or leave me.
I know this is bad but please don’t leave mean comments