This isn’t a cute little diary entry.
This isn’t me posing on my bed with fairy lights and thigh-highs.
This is me crouched in the dark corner of an abandoned warehouse on the edge of town at 3:47 a.m., phone flashlight between my teeth, skirt hiked around my waist, no panties, two fingers knuckle-deep while I record the wet sounds for a stranger who paid me $200 just to hear how disgusting I can get.
I don’t do “sexy.”
I do obscene.
I do the kind of nasty that makes people uncomfortable when they realize they’re still jerking off to it.
Last night I didn’t go home after the bar.
I followed a guy into the alley behind the dumpster because he smelled like cheap beer and bad decisions—my favorite combination.
He pushed me against the brick, didn’t bother with kissing, just yanked my dress up and shoved in raw.
No condom.
No names.
Just grunts and the sound of my back scraping against the wall every thrust.
When he started to pull out I locked my ankles behind him and hissed, “Don’t you fucking dare. Fill it.”
He did.
Thick, hot, pulsing ropes that I could feel coating my walls.
Then he left.
I stayed there for another twenty minutes, squatting over the cracked pavement, pushing his cum out with my fingers so I could watch it drip in long white strings onto the dirty concrete.
I scooped some up, smeared it across my lips like gloss, and took a selfie with my tongue out.
Sent it to him.
He blocked me.
I came harder than I had all week just from the rejection.
I’m not chasing love.
I’m chasing obliteration.
I want to be used so thoroughly that when it’s over there’s nothing left to recognize.
Bruised cervix, hoarse voice, cum-crusted thighs, carpet-burned knees, and that dull, delicious ache that lasts for days like a trophy.
I keep a tally scratched into the inside of my closet door:
Loads swallowed
Loads taken raw
Loads left dripping out in public
Loads I’ve licked off floors, off boots, off steering wheels
Loads I’ve begged for while crying
The numbers are crooked and uneven because sometimes my hand was shaking too hard to hold the knife steady.
Right now I’m sitting on the cold tile of my bathroom floor, legs spread, using the handle of my toothbrush to fuck myself because everything else is either charging or covered in yesterday’s mess.
The mirror is fogged from how hard I’m breathing.
I can see my reflection: wild hair, smudged liner, pupils blown, mouth open like I’m waiting for communion.
I look ruined.
I look perfect.
If you’re reading this and you’re disgusted, good.
If you’re reading this and you’re throbbing, even better.
If you want to add your own mark to the tally—tell me exactly how you’d do it.
No soft shit.
No “I’d make love to you.”
Tell me how you’d wreck me.
How you’d make me crawl.
How you’d leave me leaking in places people aren’t supposed to leak.
Be vicious.
Be graphic.
Make me clench around nothing just from the words.
I’m not going to sleep tonight.
I’m going to keep going until my body gives out or the sun comes up—whichever happens first.
Send your poison.
I’m thirsty.