Liberal public figure age gap daddy didn’t text me on the day we were supposed to meet. He was in his divine masculine busy making money and I was in my divine feminine lacking love and asking for it in the wrong places, so I texted him to ask him if we were still going to meet. He then thought, oh, yeah I forgot, and he answered that he had changed his mind and that he wasn’t feeling it anymore, and that also, I’d never had sex, so … yeah no .
When I tell them that I’ve never done anything with anyone, they all want to know why . Not because they’re curious about my life or circumstances. It is to determine whether they can still pump and dump without feeling too bad for me, or about themselves, whether it is safe for them to do so, as I might not know how to get pumped and dumped properly, meaning without being annoying before, during or after the fact.
Can I be a fuss-free slump buster ? It’s the actual question they want me to help them answer. Do I just want to get it out of the way or do I value sex and losing my virginity ? If not, then why now at 25, why with them, why were the nudes sent without much effort on their end? What am I hiding ? Am I going to get scared all of sudden during the deed and freak out and then accuse them of having assaulted me? These are the concerns explaining why once again, the man, after an enthusiastic yes, a quick jerk off sesh over my sexting and my pictures, realises I’m not worth the hassle or the risk. The Californian guy from the year before actually ended up asking me, a few months into texting, if I was ok with having sex with him but never seeing each other again after. He had asked me this knowing I had “feelings” for him.
Liberal public figure daddy didn’t go that far, he was polite and considerate. Politically correct. He said he was not a reliable guy and that he was sure I could find a great guy to do that with. We kept texting a bit more sporadically, I loved his politeness and consideration. It felt like the dynamic of a late night show host like Stephen Colbert interviewing someone like Lady Gaga.
But then as the conversations followed one another and the dissonances concerning his preconceived notions about me multiplied, he realised I was smarter/more interesting/more “articulate” than he thought a horny and naive young woman like me should be. It seemed to have resulted in a marked change in attitude and affect towards me. I enjoyed his interest, but not fully; I knew I was oversharing and he was perceiving me like a weird little specimen. The kind you like to observe, when it looks too odd to taste, too prickly to touch. You want to take a picture or monitor it, and then share the story of this encounter as an anecdote to entertain your polite society friends.
One month into texting him, I saw on his social media that he was in my town. He didn’t even tell me. He then went somewhere else, and I realised I didn’t feel as bad about it as I thought I would. It made me feel like finally, I had lost the naive hope those who get their hearts broken are encumbered with. I knew before even matching with him that it wasn’t going to lead to anything. He was “out of my league”, physically, or socially or both, or neither, too numb to try to find out. I did feel sad though, but at least not hurt. Sad because I wanted to be friends with the guy. I had reached a point in loneliness where it didn’t matter whether it was romantic or platonic, I just wanted to be something other than rejected.
Amphetamines and antidepressants gave me the detachment I needed to just kind of forget about it and “focus on myself” and studying and that’s it. I then deleted dating apps, and never downloaded them again. I kept texting him every once in a while, proving to myself that I was able to text someone sporadically and not go nuts about the fact that they weren’t really into me, and maybe also to prove to myself that I wasn’t into him either.
I lost more weight. I was already concerned about being too skinny, with amphetamines having destroyed my appetite. Liberal daddy had lazily attempted to reassure me and told me that I was very sexy when I told him about it, but I could tell I wasn’t; and this was part of our first conversations, when he wanted to have sex. But now that he had rejected me romantically and sexually, and that I had deleted dating apps for good, I no longer felt the need to worry too much about whether being too skinny was a problem. I had always been a more or less overweight, since puberty, so too skinny wasn’t a bad thing to me, it was an issue I wasn’y scared or ashamed of at all; a non-issue. There’s no such thing as too skinny apparently, and when it is, it’s unattractive, but at least it’s not repulsive unattractive, it neutral unattractive. It would mean I need help but that I’m not beyond saving. Skinny meant I was able to succeed at something, at not being overweight at least. It also meant, among other things, that I wasn’t who I was when Californian psycho had broken my heart. The nudes I had sent him contain a body that no longer exists. I moved on from him, and from the body I had showed him too.
I was uninterested in meeting new guys, and since I had put a permanent ban on my only way to find and meet them, I was now back to normal; university where I’m too stressed to pay attention to guys around me, and my studio where I would relax, worry, do my laundry, bed rot and masturbate more and more as the months go by. I had been masturbating on amphetamines and didn’t realise they enhance sexual pleasure, and that it was that, rather than a post-heartbreak sexual spring, that had made me go from a 0-3 times a month masturbation lifestyle, to a daily routine of touching myself to audio or visual porn, and now orgasming with my tongue stuck out and my eyes in the back of my head like a demon. I would then get out of bed strung out and faint, oblivious of the growing amount of time I would spend pleasuring myself, and too wired and detached to understand what was happening. I was going to hell.
A couple of months later I had bought myself sex toys, as my fingers were no longer satisfying my needs. My sonic electric tooth brush as well as the candlestick I’d wrap up with cellophane to use as a dildo were also starting to get on my nerves and give me anxiety as to how unsafe they were, especially now that I was using them every day. I ordered a small dildo and a Satisfyer Pro, and soon enough, they got boring and I went to the next level and got myself a magic wand and a realistic state of the art platinum cured silicone dildo with a nice pair of balls, so you can feel the excellent sensation of having them smack the back of your pussy as you thrust the dildo in and out of you. They weren’t necessarily lightweight toys and I was too physically weak to use both of them at the same time or either, for a long enough period of time. That’s what frustrated me for a while, and scared me too; how skinny I had gotten, and conversly, how big my sexual appetite had become. I’d feel these bouts of intense fear, but only during my amphetamine crashes.
I didn’t want to be seductive or flirty over text with Public figure age gap daddy anymore. He had started to seem so sweet compared to me. I didn’t want to show him my sexual side anymore, it felt deviant and monstrous. The fact that he wasn’t interested in me sexually made me feel like I was the lustful freak and he was a gentle and innocent guy, replying to my non-sexual messages with interest, and even showing vulnerability and self-doubt at times, who knew a guy like him had insecurities. And how come, he had been so abrasive when we had first started texting, and now, he was sharing his deep worries about his ability to find love. I wanted to ask him why he had not wanted to try with me, but I was too numb to even know for sure if I actually wanted to be with him. Maybe I had just wanted proof that I could be liked back. Also, I knew he had never really considered actually dating me. Maybe for a couple of minutes, or not even.
***
One day after giving myself my second orgasm of the day I felt a weird buzzing in my clitoris. It happened sometimes when I’d go too hard on it. But this time it lingered, I woke up the next day with the buzzing having turned into a painful and tender sensation on one side of it only, that would get more intense when I’d walk. I didn’t masturbate that day, and decided to chill out for a couple of days and wait for it to pass. I didn’t pass. Sitting made it worse, walking made it worse, the only position that wasn’t too uncomfortable was lying down, legs spread.
A few days later, still in pain, now panicking, I googled and googled for hours and found out what had happened; I put too much pressure on my pudendal nerve with all the hours spent masturbating and trapped it as a result. No indication of whether it was reversible, only ‘pain management protocols’ like CBT, antidepressants, numbing creams or getting a nerve blocker injected, in last resort. I started crying, for the first time in months, as I was reading Reddit posts about women who have been suffering from it for years, often after giving birth, or other circumstances. I had fucked up my genitals permanently.
tbc.
Next: Femcel pt. 14