It feels good.. . until it doesn’t.
Entering a space, confidence high, the appreciative looks of men feed me, building my strength. There is power in feeling like the most desired woman in the room. They don’t know me. But they want me. At least they want that which they are presented. When I’m not known, being what some would call objectified feels like a compliment. The exterior is all that can be responded to. And the armor may be artful, but it’s also titanium grade. The responsive energy just polishes it up.
There is a difference to me between being someone’s fantasy and being someone’s object. As the fantasy I’m still shielded, part of me unknown in one of two ways—either my heart or my appearance. I love being a fantasy. It’s when the armor is pierced that it goes awry.
“Why are you still dressed?” ExBoss once asked soon after I crossed the threshold. It wasn’t the question that stung. But his tone. I cared deeply for this man, and had opened my heart up to him. He knew me, not just how I looked, but how I thought, what I was passionate about. But that night, as far as he was concerned, my purpose was to be his release. That was it. Other than as visual and physical stimulation, I held no other value to him.
At the time I laughed it off and said something coy like, “Because you haven’t undressed me yet.” But the seed of abasement had been planted. And when I drove away into the night, the smell of him on me, I seemed to be nothing more than his cum rag. That didn’t feel good.
In the digital world it’s different. There the approach is often reversed. Emails lead to online chatting, which can turn into texting and phone calls. Time is spent knowing the other person. And sometimes it stops there. But every now and then, it doesn’t. Sometimes pictures are requested. If I acquiesce then suddenly I’m known in a different way. And then which direction will it go? The faster it escalates, the easier it is to see.
At its basest, I was making sexy faces at the computer watching his hand move in blur on his cock, until his seed was spent. Afterwards I felt a bit dirty. And used. But wasn’t sure why.
It wasn’t always like that. Sometimes it was wonderful. Sometimes watching him come is what took me over the edge. And after it was done, I floated, feeling somewhat sated. It was not the real thing. It wasn’t having him there next to me. But it was better than nothing at all.
It began to feel scummy when the time spent getting to know me, to understand me, was overshadowed by the desire to cum while watching me. During those times I believed I was nothing more than a fuck toy. And there is so much more to me. Good things. But those weren’t as important. All he wanted was to see a little boob so he could get a hard-on. And fwap fwap fwap… face contorts. And explosion.
At the same time, focusing solely on the cerebral leaves me wondering if a man finds me physically attractive. My self worth is all tangled up in my intelligence, my wit, my creativity, my appearance, and my sexuality. When the armor is gone and I’m laid bare, it’s my responsibility to make sure who I expose myself to values all of me.
My weakness is that I find the attention addicting. I revel in the praise of my appearance. I want it. Until that’s all it is and the vicegrip of self loathing circles my throat and I can’t breathe.