Lately I have begun to act differently, almost predatory. I have a hunger inside that is not fed with sweetness, but raw flesh. And I want all of it. Yet, when I get it I choke.  I feel conflicted, violently ambivalent.  I want the thrill of the chase, yet the security of having the prize. Why I do I talk about love in such derogatory ways? Is it all a front, a way to hide my vulnerability? Because secretly I am a princess in disguise? Tender and plump waiting like prey for someone to scoop me up and tend to my delicate needs. I want to be both the genteel seducer and the gently seduced. Is that too tall a task in this recipe for disaster?

I licked two pussies the other day. But I am a shit Lothario. Is it because I am a girl? Can I not be a Lothario by my very nature? I guess the clue is in the name, ending with an ‘o’ denoting a masculine gender. But what is gender but the construct of a society, or are we talking energies here? I’m pretty sure Lothario’s aren’t relegated to being a ‘man’, I just fail on other terms.  I fall in love and bruise too easily, or I feel sad when it’s purely sexual – basic chemistry at best, or even a bit disgusted when I don’t like them enough to fall in love. And I reject them silently like a spoilt child pushing away her plate and looking away. I could not bear to look at him after the lights came up, I vomited all day. Why does my body react in such visceral ways? Does everyone have this gut reaction?

Since as long as I can remember I have been obsessed – and I don’t use this term lightly – with anything related to sex. I’m not sure why. I may not have gone down the path of the sex addict, or indulged too much in random acquaintances, but instead opted for that of the discerned observer, the keen student, the randy masturbator, the porn connoisseur, the tender pervert. I’m a romantic at heart, but a sick one. On a quest for a perverse, yet romantic other to live up to the daydream. A simultaneous fairytale princess and filthy misogynist.  What an unsightly combination. I’m full of contradictions, aren’t we all. I like tender rape scenes, where the object of mal-affection is cherished and adored. Tender violence, is that a thing I wonder? Romanticism for me is surrendering to the knife point held against my neck as I stare him in the eye. Intensity, longing, and fear. Fear gets me off. It always has. As a child I would turn my fears into sexual fantasies, so they no longer scared me. Funny how the mind works to preserve our best interests.