“You’re Insatiable”

Having sex for money* plummeted me into a spiral of sex addiction and a constant need for experience. 

@louijover

I was inspired to write this after a friend asked if my inability to “open [myself] up to the prospect of having a girlfriend” was triggered because I was “mistreated in a previous relationship”. The simple answer is no but it is far more complicated than that and maybe even a little taboo for the average discerning person. So here goes.

I have always been a very sexual person. I first had sex when I was fourteen. I had boyfriends in abundance during high school. The most traumatising break up I experienced was when Samuel dumped me on Valentine’s Day in 2002. He didn’t even have the gutsiness to tell me himself, instead he sent Kieran to run to me and shout it in my face in the playground at lunchtime. It was the Valentine’s disco that afternoon, who was I to hold hands and dance with now? I was heartbroken. It still haunts me to this day. Maybe that’s where my hatred for cowardliness stems from. Oh, Samuel. You are he who is responsible for all my complexities.

I was either fifteen or fourteen when I my tolerance for bad sex had been reached. My best friend, Rebecca, and I were fucking our boyfriends at one of their house’s. She was on the top bunk bed while my boyfriend and I were on the bottom. I was as outspoken then as I am now. Blunt, abrupt, to the point, and satiated with the ritual of moaning with “glee” as he tried to fumble with my labia and penetrate my clitoris. I demanded that Rebecca and I swapped lovers. Her boyfriend was marginally better, or at least, he had a bigger dick. Maybe that’s my love of swinging stems from.

I can’t pin point how I developed a love for dominance and degradation but I recognised that my Head of Year pulling me out of class to reprimand me turned me on more than anything than I could ever find scrolling through RedTube. I fully committed myself to the cause: excluded five times, forbidden to go on the ski trip in France, not allowed on the trip to Auschwitz, instead being made to sit outside his office and complete tedious tasks. Although it did give me something to wank over when I eventually got home so somehow it all seemed worthwhile.

When I wasn’t masturbating, I was in chatrooms and talking with “slave owners” in Texas on ALT.com. I told one local Master the exact route I walked from school to home. We played with the idea that he would kidnap me and one day I felt his presence in my shadow. I strayed from my usual path, and instead walked down a busy main road and scurried into the closest newsagents where I called my mother to come pick me up. I remember telling her I felt faint and nauseous. It wasn’t untrue. I was panicked and learned that some fantasises should stay as such.

And then I met Steven. I was sixteen and at the nightclub that was infamous for “underagers”. I had been going there since I was fourteen and grew friendly with the door staff. In hindsight, and looking back at old photographs from then, I’m not entirely sure how I was let in but it was before Challenge 21/25 and if it wasn’t for my teenage posse and the old perverted men who lusted after us, there’d be no revellers.

“I’ll give you £300 to fuck you if you can prove you’re sixteen.”

He was offering me money for something that I would have done for free. He was exactly what I wanted at that moment. Charming, older, experienced, a perfect one nightstand and a brilliant excuse to disappear. I said my goodbyes to my disinterested friends and escaped to his hotel. This “one night stand” evolved into a five year affair. I wasn’t so naive not to realise that he’d have a wife and a family but he was in my city every week for work and his accent was the same as my biological father’s so when asked me to call him ‘Daddy’ I knew that the wet between my legs would not be found if I was the ‘sweet, little girl’ that he liked to call me.

We were perfect for each other. We were equally perverse, taboo, and being 26 years my senior I relied and look up to him as a daughter would depend on her father. And him being an egocentric, he needed to be needed.

I spawned an imaginary friend so to have an alibi for my countless weekends away from home. Her name was Sarah, we met through friends but she lived in Edinburgh and my mum knew just how much I loved that city so of course I’d have to go see her every weekend. Little did she know I was in Liverpool, or Manchester, sometimes actually in Edinburgh, London one time and Tenerife another. He’d teach me to drink whiskey and we’d play Strangers in a Bar. We’d fuck all weekend, he’d made me squirt and come harder than any other boy my own age could ever dream of. And then there was the gifts: designer watches, underwear, jewellery, a £450 dress just because it looks cute. Sometimes cold hard cash too and I can’t deny I didn’t love it. “Spoil yourself”, he’d say.

Fucking was, and is, like cocaine to me. The supply creates demand.

One sugar daddy wasn’t enough to sustain my sexual hunger. It was inevitable really that I’d eventually get into sex work. I was obsessed with that famous call girl who was all the rage some ten years ago. I was impressionable and wanted all of the things: the money, the sex, the power. I liked conversing with men, humouring them as they tried to make me believe that they were interested in me as a person and not just because I was a young hot whore.

The money was a bonus. I was outwardly living the last of my teenager years as a sexually liberated, kinky woman, having experiences, and going to parties that my peers could only dream of and fantasise about.

It all calmed down (a little) when I started to date a woman and things looked to be getting serious. I still occasionally saw Steven, I was still occasionally “working”, I was still venturing to my local fetish club and I even dragged her to some of the bigger kink parties.

I loved her but I couldn’t omit my sexuality, not even for love, and I don’t think I will ever be capable of doing so.

Being in, what was essentially, a monogamous relationship saw me cheating and living out my hedonistic tendencies unethically and at her expense. It seems everyone’s seven-year itch is my five and last year we amicably made the decision to split up.

This last year has allowed me to find my feet as a singleton again. I can’t deny that I actively seek out “quick fix” conquests and I don’t think I will stop anytime soon. Everyone needs a hobby and while you may pass time playing video games, I fuck strangers. What began as a desire for experience has unfolded into a never ending chase for experience, and in turn possibly an undiagnosed sex addiction.

I have no idea how many people I have slept with but I don’t think the number is relevant. I am proud of my sexuality and will talk freely about it to anyone who wants to know. I may not live my life in a way that is considered conventionally healthy but the pleasure derived from it outweighs the shame. I love love and I love sharing deep moments of passion and lust with similarly sexually liberated individuals. Just because we’re not “in a relationship” does not mean there is not the opportunity to share, to grow, to trust, to provide. Any relationship, given the opportunity, no matter how significant or not, allows change, allows process, and allows healing to occur.

Maybe one day I will grow out of this need to have everything, to do everything, everyone. Maybe one day I will get married, have children, and stop looking over your shoulder.

I’m 25 now and I can’t foresee myself slowing down any time soon, it all seems like a terribly dull and boring prospect for now.


 *I am aware that this post has been published on a platform where I am not wholly anonymous. Many of you here know me outside of the realms of the inter webs and my sex worker past may be something you were not aware of but it is neither something I deny or am ashamed of. Sex workers are real people and there are more of us than you think. 

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“Don’t burn all your bridges down,” he warns her. “You won’t have anyone left to turn to.”

“I’ll still have you, won’t I?” Her words slurred with pain or too much beer, he doesn’t know. “You always come running back even when I make your life miserable.

You can’t stay away from me.”

He wished he could tell her she was wrong.

Dear daddy, I’m not your daughter

Well, maybe parts of me are. My mother used to tell me I was too serious and manipulative. School teachers said that I liked to play the system. My girlfriend told me that I have evil eyes. You told me that you’re always thinking and I always do too.
But daddy, I’m not your daughter.

Well, maybe parts of me are. I am a womaniser. I am a fatist. I hate authority. I have an addictive personality. I make promises I can’t keep. I gamble and drink and smoke too much.
But daddy, I’m not your daughter.
Maybe one day I will be the daughter you’d be proud of.
I’ve yet to keep my girlfriend hostage. I’ve yet to dictate what she does or does not wear. I’ve yet to throw her down a flight of stairs only to drag her back up and kick her down again. I’ve yet to leave her nose scarred from trying to bite it off. I’ve yet to hold her over a bridge. I’ve yet to play with acid. I’ve yet to stalk her family and throw boulders through their windows. I’ve yet to leave her to get new teeth. I’ve yet to leave her to get her ribs fixed.

She’s yet to feel the need to abscond to a different country to seek a safe haven. She’s yet to live in a hostel with no fixed address. She’s yet to live with depression and PTSD and too scared to leave the house.

Daddy, I’m not your daughter.
Maybe one day I will reach my full potential. Maybe if I have a child I will reach my full potential.
Maybe if I had a child I’d kidnap them. Maybe if our faces were painted over national newspapers and maybe if my blurry mugshot was played on the evening news, you’d be proud of me. Maybe when their uncle dies on their birthday, I’d tell them their present is slowly burning on a low heat. Maybe that’ll make you proud.
Do you know who the fuck I am?
Happy Father’s Day, Dad.
Lots of Love,
Not Your Fucking Daughter.

The Good Girl

“You’re always such a good girl for me,” he said.

And she was.

She was a good girl to him and she was a good girl to the world. She wanted so badly to be perceived as good. If people saw that in her then maybe it could be true. Maybe that would make it true. But she wanted so many bad things. Things that good girls shouldn’t want.

Tonight, he looked into her eyes and saw his precious and sweet submissive. But she needed him to see something else.

“Open your mouth for me, baby.” He stood over her still fully attired while she knelt naked before him. She stared up at him, eyes neutral but her mouth remained closed.

He cocked his head, “what is it?”

He let her silence stand for a short moment before he grabbed her hair and pulled her head back and placing himself at her lips.

She considered. And then with a half cocked smile opened for him. He worked her mouth slow and steady. She was compliant but nothing more. Her eyes wandered to the window and watched the contrast of the blowing snow flakes shining in the bright sunlight. They flew wildly at their impulse but did not escape the heated rays. In the end, one by one, they seemed to burn out and disappear mid-air.

He cleared his throat. Her inattention had not gone unnoticed. Palms moved to each side of her face like blinkers and focused her forward. She slackened her torso so that she began to slump and he was forced to hold her up with his hands.

He was so patient with her; so very good to her. Ordinarily, his demeanour rubbed off and made her shine. But, as of just very recently, she had fallen into a funk and would hold no polish. The good girl mask had been pulled loose and what was underneath resembled hard moulded plastic that had been corrupted by her wearing the disguise too tight and for too long.

She reached her arms to the floor behind her, leaned back and lifted her ass. Pushing awkwardly with her feet, she scurried backwards like a crab, breaking free of his grip. Back, back, back until her head bumped against the mattress. She looked at him in thinly veiled challenge.

Although his overall countenance gave no tell, the crinkles of his eyes at their corners let slip his emotion: amusement.

She pulled her knees up tight to her chest and pouted.

“I’m not chasing you across the room just because you want me to.” He shook his head firmly and crossed his arms over her chest. Her pout simmered and began to perk into a scowl. “Is it that bad tonight?” He asked. She nodded, eyes looking listlessly out the window. “How bad?”

“Really bad.” She didn’t like to say it. She preferred to poke and goad him.

At first he hadn’t understood it. He had pursued her, and given her what she wanted, sometimes without fully realising what he was doing but his ability to read her had improved. More and more, he was figuring her out. In response, she had become more cunning in her efforts but, today, she had failed. The inattention was good. The escape, too obvious.

“Why is it so hard for you to tell me when you’re feeling this way?” She shrugged. It wasn’t an attempt at avoidance. It was just too hard to articulate.

Outside of that room, there were few who ever wanted to know how the good girl was feeling. They only wanted one thing from her: her strength. To admit weakness, or to admit to having needs, was unthinkable. Especially when they come in her favour.

“It’s easier to poke.” She finally said.
“Maybe…” He walked to the armchair in the corner of the room and sat down, “but it’s not going to be anymore.”

She stared at him from the floor, watching as he silently returned her look. Although she was not aware of a clock in the room, she swore that she could hear one ticking, measuring out the sudden quiet that had fallen between them. She shifted back and forth on her ass unable to get comfortable as her fingers rubbed absentmindedly over the soft skin of her thighs.

“Please.” She could stand the disconnect no longer. He raised an eyebrow but said nothing. Padding across the carpet on her hands and knees, she hung her head like a penitent puppy. “Please…” Her cheeks rested on the arm of his chair near his hand.

“Please, what?”

Good question. She wanted that one word to convey so much. Her wide eyes stared up helplessly at him.

“No,” his tone was even, but firm. No? Which unspoken question was he answering? “From now on, when you need something, I expect you to ask for it directly. No more clever slut games.” She shifted her head away as if looking elsewhere would help her hide from him. “I can still see you. More and more, in fact.” He moved his hand away and the foot felt like a mile. She peered longingly where it settled on his thigh.

He had such beautiful hands; such well proportioned hands. They were lightly roughened from life but not at all hard. To her, they were the hands of an artist. Visions flashed of how they had worked on her, sculpted her, broken her down and then formed her again. How she needed their magic now.

“If I’m distracting you, perhaps you should go have a seat against the wall while you collect your thoughts.” He nodded in the the direction of the far corner.
“Is that what you’re telling me to do?”
“No,” he corrected. “I’m asking you to speak plainly about what you’re feeling and what you need. And to trust me with it. But if you can’t,” he leaned forward in her direction, “then we have hit a wall, and you’ll have to crawl over there and meet it.” His dexterous fingers began tapping his thigh in emphasis.

She took a slow, deep breath and swallowed hard. Putting both hands on his knees, facing him. He parted his thighs wide as if opening a gate for her. She seized the opportunity and scampered between his legs where she felt safer and more contained. The crinkle at his eye once again appeared then quickly vanished.

“So, are you ready to tell me what you need?” She nodded sheepishly. “No more slut games?” She shook her head and drew another long breath.
“Of course, now you already know…”
“That’s not the point.” Her front teeth chewed on her lip as she noshed on her words.
“I feel very empty tonight. It’s as though the emptiness is holding down the anger.”
“Is there a reason why you’re angry tonight?” His voice held concern.
“I don’t always know why it comes when it does… It just does…”

He nodded empathetically. His girl, his good girl, was generally sweet natured and even well tempered, but his whore…

She was forged from a different metal which was more difficult to temper. And, coming from the furnace himself, he understood. “And what do you need?”

There were no tears. They would be actively brought forth later. Her eyes were filled with something else. Something raw.

“Use,” she squinted as though someone was going to come running into the room and slap her for saying it. “I need to be used by you… to be given purpose… because I feel like I don’t have any of my own right now.” There was a desperate gasp, like a puff of smoke struggling to write words in the sky, “I hate the emptiness.”

Again, he nodded then sat patiently and waited. For him to fill the void, she had to be first willing to fill the space between them.

“I need to have emotion drawn in me to displace the anger,” she drew another breath and continued, “I need you to get into my head in order to get me out of it.

I need to be taken over and have my demon exorcised… even if that demon is me…”

“Demons are not easily wrenched free,” his face was kind but serious, “I need to be sure that you know what you’re asking for.” She began to wriggle uncomfortably between his legs.
“You know what I’m asking for.” This was hardly, after all, their first exorcism.
“Yes, I know,” He reached down and cupped her head in between his oh-so-capable hands, “but you need to know it too. You need to own it and stop pretending that it comes from somewhere else.

When I pry the demon loose, only you can embrace it… so that you’ve got a hold on it, and it’s not got the hold of you…” His fingers trailed down her cheeks as he released them. “So. Plainly now. What are you asking for?”

“Tears.” And with that, all remaining pretense would be washed away. “Bring me to tears. Whatever it takes.”
“That’s a good girl.” His voice was smooth and reassuring.

A good girl? Maybe so. Maybe by a type of definition that wouldn’t be understood by most folks.

“Sir, there is one more thing…”
“Yes?”
“Love me. When it is all over I need you to love me.” Her hair fell over her eyes as her head moved to rest on his thigh and her arms clung around his legs.

The crinkles around the eyes again.

“No, baby… I will love you through it all…”

What I Need to Say

Did you ever feel like there was a conversation you really wanted to have with someone and yet part of you felt it was unwise? This is a feeling I know all too well.

When I was younger, I spent years fighting for an apology. It wasn’t until my whole world crashed down on me that I realised I’d become a tornado of anger and bitterness, destroying everything in my wake. I eventually realised that I needed to let go of that victim story that I had been carrying around, whether I got the closure I sought or not. For a long time, I thought I had to let go.

Recently I realised I’ve been carrying around subconscious resentment because part of me still wants to hear those words I chased long ago, that I’ve always deserved respect and love, and I’ve never deserved to feel pain and shame.

So I put all this into a letter that I don’t intend to send. Despite the counsellor sessions and the collection of self-help books, I’ve never done this before. The other day was the first day I got it all down. I titled this word doc “What I Need to Say,” and I ended it with the following words.

“I wrote this letter because I want to heal more fully. A part of me feels that would be much easier for me if you could look me in the eye and say ‘I’m sorry.’

Then I remember that I chose to stop pursuing an apology. So instead of pushing for it, I will say this: for all the anger, resentment, bitterness and cruelty I directed towards you many years ago, I’m sorry. That’s not the person I want to be. The person I want to be isn’t a victim. She’s loving, compassionate, and kind.

The person I want to be has forgiven you, and loves herself for making that choice.”