The Object

I could blame the internet for why I'm like this. The internet makes it too easy. Anonymous sex. Especially for a woman. But especially for a woman like me. No headshot required. I keep the body in shape mostly so I'll have something worthy of desecration. But blaming the internet would be dishonest. Which would defeat the whole purpose of what I'm doing.

I already get why I'm supposed to write stuff down. To deal with it, I mean. The internet told me that. If you want to better understand something about yourself, write about it. I don't want to talk to a therapist about it because oh my god. How could I sit down in a normal setting with a normal person and describe my absolute degeneracy. Both men and women are problematic for me on that score. A man, I would simply resent because he refused to take advantage of me even though I would know he wanted to. A woman, I would resent because I would know that she is secretly just like me, she just won't admit it. Even though most women are definitely not like me. Not to the degree that I am. Not in a way that compels them to actually act on it.

So no therapy for me. The next best thing, according to the internet, is to write it down and figure it out. I don't actually even feel like I need to "figure it out", but there was an incident that I really should take seriously and try to deal with so I'm trying to be an adult and do that. And it's sort of working. Because I never think about any of this stuff in these terms and now that I writing it out, I'm automatically thinking about who I am and what it is I'm really doing.

The incident was I crashed my car into a tree. On purpose. I did it in a panic after a man punched me in the face several times during sex. There was already swelling before I left the motel and I knew I would have to have something really good to tell my husband. I crashed my car into a tree, dear, was the best I could come up with on short notice.

I know that the thing that is supposed to be troubling me is that I put myself into a situation where I was alone with a strange man and he became violent. The problem is that when he started hitting me, I actually came. Not because I get off on pain, necessarily. But because of the names he was was calling me. And because he was right. And because I deserved it.

He asked me right in the middle of sex if I was married. Which is fine. They can do what they want. Just don't leave marks please? I gasped yes because he was pounding my poor pussy mercilessly. That's when he said "You bitch!" and knocked the shit out of me.

Slut. Whore. Tramp. Trollop? Nobody ever said that one before. But I kind of like it. I'm all of those things, and I deserve to be punished. Although I don't want to be. Not really. Not in the way I would be if I was exposed to the world. My shame is for me alone to enjoy, and if my family and friends had to share in it I would kill myself.

That didn't take long. I guess this writing thing really does work. I'm suicidal. Although really it's just that suicide is sort of my backup plan. My main plan is just to keep on going the way I am. And if that doesn't work out, I'll be taking a ride on the Kurt Cobain train. My husband owns a shotgun. I've asked if he's thought about getting a pistol.

I don't know if I would actually go through with it. I think I magnify the seriousness of the thing because I take it so seriously. My depravity. The thing that gets me off. It could be that what I want it to be is more than it really is. It's just sex. But it's reckless sex. With lots of different men. Any of whom could hurt me or even kill me if that's what they wanted to do. But I'm not afraid of them. Not even the man who hit me. He actually grabbed me by the throat and began to choke me. But that was when he came, after which things calmed down considerably. But I was never afraid. Not even in those few seconds when I thought he was going to kill me. I can't be afraid when I'm with them in that room. In those moments, I am not a person. I am an object. I am a thing. A disposable sperm receptacle. Like a human-sized, woman-shaped condom.

I know why I'm like this. At least, I know what they would say if I tried that therapy thing. But that's just one more reason for me to reject that idea. There's nothing they can do. It can't be turned off. It lives in the monkey brain. And every quarter, when my husband's regular 3 day trip is approaching, the monkey starts gibbering.

If I wasn't married, it wouldn't work this way. Having sex with random men wouldn't mean the same thing. I would still do it, I'm sure. But I imagine I would be a lot more irresponsible about it. Like it wouldn't just be 4 days out of the year. Nor would it be confined to motel rooms.

In college, it was mostly men's rooms. As in public restrooms. But this didn't just happen. It was a boundary that I might never have crossed if circumstances hadn't been what they were. I'd been given a prescription for some anti-anxiety medication that I didn't really need. I went seeking it out after trying one of my friend's pills and ended up with my own stash. I liked the way it made me feel, but I hadn't really realized yet what it was making me feel. Not only did it remove any anxiety I might have felt, it removed those inhibitions that I still had left. I wasn't fully aware of myself. It actually seemed like I was being normal when I visited a park where people supposedly met to have sex in the public restroom.

It wasn't until my second visit, when I went late enough at night, that I discovered the truth of the matter. It wasn't "people" who had sex there. It was gay men. Not that gay men aren't people. Just that I was sort of expecting that women did this sort of thing too? Like don't they have glory holes or something where women go to suck cock? You know? Like in porn?

They did have glory holes at this particular location, but it wasn't women sucking the cocks. But there's something interesting about gay men. Some of them aren't actually gay. They just like gay sex. That doesn't make sense, maybe, but that's what I've been told. Sometimes men talk to me, even though I don't talk to them. These days I mean. These days men spend time with me alone and in private. And they can see how I am. Uninhibited. Nonjudgmental. Plus the eyes. Mom always said I was "melancholy pretty". With my dark hair and dark eyes and features that just seem to convey a sort of sadness. It's easy for men to see me as somebody who would have a sympathetic ear. But back in college things were different. I was just a young slut who some not-quite-gay men were lucky enough to encounter down at the local filth hut.

The way I was, with no anxiety or inhibitions, I was an easy mark for the various perverts who hung out in that area. Though it's not really fair to say that they took advantage of me. I wanted it, after all. I went there looking to give my body away. And that's what I did. More times than I can even remember. I lost myself in it. I became the object. The sex-doll in the back stall.

The firsts guy to get me into that stall really was gay. I realized that later, though at the time I wasn't really sure. He didn't fuck me. He just sat me down on the toilet and stood a few inches in front of me with an expectant look. He was casual about it. Friendly. This was a man who was used to having his dick sucked in a toilet stall. Probably ten years older than me, though I hardly ever really notice such things. I see males. Males who want to get off, and who want to use me to do it. With this man being so casual and me being happily medicated, I did the obvious and undid his jeans and let them fall to his ankles. No underwear. I would come to find that this was not uncommon among the men who lurked in the vicinity of the hut.

He wasn't hard, so I sucked him into my mouth and made him that way. I wasn't the most experienced cocksucker in the world, but I was uninhibited and growing wet between the legs and I was eager to do a good job. I kept glancing up at him for approval as I moved my lips up and down his quickly hardening member. Each time I took him into my mouth he poked a little bit deeper into my throat. I began to gag a little bit, and looked up to see if that was okay. He looked like he liked it, but he was still mostly casual. Which made me work harder. His penis was not too thick, but relatively long. Once he grew fully erect and the length was consistent I grew used to taking him in my throat without gagging. And then I just kept doing that, bobbing my head and fucking him back into my throat again and again. I could tell this was good for him and I just kept trying to make it better. Sucking on him and licking my tongue along his shaft as I took him into my throat.

My determination to make him cum overcame the fact that I wasn't exactly his type. I watched him and listened to him and held his balls in my hand, feeling his scrotum tightening. I was in a place I'd never been before. Aside from a men's room stall. I was sitting on a toilet enthusiastically servicing a strange man with my whore mouth. I was so horny for him to feed me his sperm that I wanted to touch myself. So I did, reaching my free hand under my skirt and into my more-than-damp panties to give my burning pussy some much needed attention. But almost as soon as I began to masturbate, the man was at the point of ejaculation and he took control of me. He took my head between both his hands and held it in place while he slid his cock all the way back and began rutting in my throat. The way he was doing it, was constantly triggering my gag reflex but I tightened my belly and controlled myself, doing my best to keep sucking on him while holding and pleasuring his balls. I felt his urethra pulse against my tongue and thick fluid streamed into my throat. He came with a grunt was gratifying in what it communicated. I immediately began working my throat to swallow his load, one hand gently squeezing his scrotum, the other moving sporadically in my panties.

I looked up at him as he was ejaculating into mouth, but his face was upturned, his body shuddering. I was disappointed that he wasn't looking at me and watching me eat his discharge. But he was probably imagining some guy he liked, which I would later come to appreciate, because the main thing was he was really having a good one in my mouth. His fingers curled up to hold me by the hair and he lifted himself up onto his toes.

It went on longer than I expected. His thick cum hung in my throat like phlegm and I had to work to ingest it. Then he came back down onto his heels and just moved his hips gently back and forth, using my lips to milk the dregs of his balls out onto my tongue. Then he shuddered and extracted himself gingerly. He hoisted his pants and fastened them in a practiced sort of way, his still erect, saliva coated penis making a tent in front of my face. I looked from that up at him. Mr. Casual was gone. He looked almost concerned. But it was hard to tell. There was something kind of cold about him. Nothing hostile. I was just seeing the real him. Without the casual, friendly mask. He looked at me and said he would give me five minutes to come to my senses and leave that men's room and that entire part of town forever. He said after five minutes he'd send a man in here who would appreciate me the way I wanted to be appreciated. And then he left me sitting there on the toilet, with my hand still in my panties, trying to clear my throat of the gooey mess as if I had something to say.