I always thought that you were supposed to feel
like shit after sex. That you were supposed to hate
yourself to the point of cutting up your arms just to
forget the sick act you’ve performed on camera,
on video, in front of an audience.
I thought that’s how you know if people like you.
When they degrade you and treat you like you’re trash,
nothing but a filthy sex object whose only purpose in
life is to get people off.
Never satisfying your needs.
Never giving a shit.
Maybe it’s a coping mechanism,
to use sex as a way to forget that I’m
human by doing sick, twisted things that
no one would dare try in the bedroom.
By performing fucked up, disgusting, vile,
I’m-going-to-hell type shit that normal
people would never do with their lifeless, missionary sex.
Being raped repeatedly for years doesn’t help
me any except feed my sick obsessions,
my mouth watering fetishes,
my dark and twisted life goals.
Being raped will make you crave dominating,
kind of sex.
The kind of sex where for a moment you
hope you’re going to be choked to death,
and next thing you know you’re shaking
from an orgasm you never knew was possible.
The kind of orgasm where you beg for the
person to choke you harder,
to hate you just a little bit longer,
to bring you closer to death so you can finally die once and for all.
If there’s something better than sex, send it my way. Until then, I’ll be gagging on a mouth full of cock until I die.