DISCLAIMER: This is the first part of a longer story. The story contains plenty of sex, but this chapter does not. If you appreciate stories that build, you may like this. If you want a quick read, this may not be for you.
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To a stranger on the internet, this may read like a confession, but anyone who actually knows me and has observed my behavior will recognize it as a statement as blatantly obvious as "my eyes are blue" or "my hair is black."
I have an irresistible weakness for arrogant, aggressive men.
Please do not confuse this with an attraction to something as mundane as confidence. Every girl likes a man with confidence. This is not the same thing.
The men I sleep with go far beyond mere confidence. They approach me with the presumption that they are going to fuck me, believing that the only uncertainty is when and where they will claim me. These men act as if they are entitled to touch my body in any manner they see fit. Confidence alone doesn't come close to describing the privilege they exude in expecting me to submit myself to any and all of their desires.
There is nothing more intoxicating than this kind of arrogance in the right hands.
Rest assured, however, that it takes a very specific type of man to pull this off. They aren't all identical clones, but if I had to describe a type, the men that claim me tend to be older and highly successful, with the wealth and status to cushion their egos against any possible bruise. To be clear, I'm not a gold-digger that goes after wealthy men with the hopes of reeling on in and landing myself an easy life of luxury. There are plenty of wealthy older men out there that lack the dominant streak that dissolves my self-control. I have no problem resisting these men, as their advances do nothing for me. But there is no sense in denying that many of the men that have fucked me do possess these characteristics.
And, since I'm speaking frankly, it would be conspicuous to overlook the fact that almost all of them have another trait in common: they tend to be white, just like my Dad.
Let me say for the record that my father never touched me in a sexual way. Not once, not ever. To the contrary, my Dad was fiercely protective of me. In hindsight, I have come to believe that his vigilance was borne of intimate, first-hand knowledge of the predatory men who walk among us. Men just like him. I mentioned my Dad not just because he is white, but because, at a basic level, this story is about a lack of self-control. My father had no self-control in the situations where it mattered most, and this is a trait that he seems to have passed down to me.
As I said in the beginning, most of the people in my life are well aware of how I interact with men. My father managed to keep his lack of self-control a secret for years, but mine was revealed early, and it—like my body—has since been laid bare many times over. However, few of the people in my life know why I behave this way, something that even I myself have only lately come to understand. If you read my story, you may begin to understand it, too.
...
From birth until just after I turned 18, I lived in a university town on the California coast. My Dad was a professor in the political science department and a specialist in the field of international relations. At 29, he was the youngest person in the history of the department to receive a tenure-track position. The following year, he was invited to present his work at a conference in Seoul, which happened to be organized by a young female graduate student with long black hair, straight white teeth, and a curiosity towards American men. Within a year, they were married, and my Mom moved to California to be with him.
My Mom landed a job at the same university as my Dad, albeit as a program coordinator rather than a faculty member. This job suited her well, and she was good at it, but it surely would've been better if it had been at a different university. Despite her competence, my Mom always feared that people assumed she had only gotten the job because of her hotshot husband, and as proud as she was of my Dad's accomplishments, I think it hurt her to be so overshadowed. When my Mom got pregnant with me, she was 27 and my Dad was 33. He was already on the fast track to be the next chair of his department. It wasn't even a question of who would take time off to raise me.
Although my Mom was my primary caregiver by almost any standard, throughout my childhood, my relationship with her was never as close as it was with my Dad. My Mom is Korean, and while her English is excellent, she's never felt truly at home in the US. Even after having raised two children here, she still hasn't fully adjusted to American life. But I was born in the US, and despite being half-Korean, I've always identified strongly as an American. My looks have made it easy to see myself this way: unlike my Mom, whose Asian features are unmistakable, the endowment of my mixed parentage makes me difficult to categorize: my skin is light, but it tans golden without burning. My irises are blue, but set inside almond-shaped eyes. My long, wavy hair is black, but it softens to the color of coffee during the summertime. At 5'10, I am taller than most Asian girls, and wearing a 34C bra, my curves are far more generous. Growing up in California, I never had a problem fitting in.
Perhaps because I felt so American and my Mom didn't, it made it easier for me to get close to my Dad. It also didn't hurt that my Dad had the status of a local celebrity in our university town. As a little girl, I used to love walking through campus with him, watching the way people reacted to us. Faculty and staff greeted us warmly, but it was nothing compared to the worship he received from his adoring, mostly female students.
"Hiiii, Professor Andrews," they would squeal as we walked by. "Oh my god, is that Lola?"
"So cute with those blue eyes! Just like yours, Professor."
