Coping Mechanisms.

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.

Exhibitionist.

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,

rough, degrading,

choking-you-to-death

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.

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