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my thoughts

I can't believe that what I feel is really happening to me
Make it hurt
And point the finger at my insecurities
Well I guess I just don't understand about those complexities in your mind
And I guess I just don't understand why this world seems so unkind
Maybe just once I get what's coming to me.

**"Maybe Just Once" - Nine Inch Nails**

Wednesday, September 28, 2005

Those words she loves to hear and dreads to understand. The way he whispers sharply in her ear all those dirty things that send tingles up and down her spine. It's when he pulls her hair back and to the side so that her head is turned just so and his mouth can press itself against the side of her face. Or perhaps when he lays on top of her and his weight pins her down and she has no other choice but to look into his eyes. His lips form the same words she used to call certain girls behind their backs. Those same words that no woman wants all to know her as.

Whore. Slut. Toy. Skank. Cunt. Hole. Tart. Bitch. Property. Tramp.

Those words she loves to hear embody all she wants to be for him while she is naked at his feet. She wants, no, needs to be his sextoy, his fuckslut, his wanton whore. She wants to know how he desires her in that moment and how his need for her is so great that he does not pause to think of her pleasure at all. She finds her pleasure within his. The sweat on his skin, the sound of his voice, the taste of his kiss. Those all serve as proof of his enjoyment of her body. A smile curls on her lips while she absorbs each name he calls her into her mind and feels them spread like fire through her blood. She can feel the power they bring upon her, causing her to act in the way they describe. She becomes the sex goddess that every heterosexual human male lusts for.

Those words she dreads to understand are the kind used only in the deepest insult. The kind where one is supposed to subdue one's sexuality and pretend that lust is non-existant. These are the words she sees scrawled on the stalls in public washrooms to degrade. Girls in highschool spit and hiss those words at each other in order to dominate. It is not something a woman wants to be known as and yet she craves to hear them while he fucks her. When it's all over, she lays there in his arms and tries not to think about their true meaning. Does he really mean what he says to her in the heat of the moment? If he really thinks these things of her then does he truly care for her? Has she really become those things she's always dreaded? Do boys only want to date the nice girl?

Those words in her head bounce against and ricochet inside her skull. They echo constantly and the only way she can make their syllables fade is to ask him over and over what he really thinks of her, for him to reassure her that she is not a slut or a whore or a toy to him. If only she could let her ears hear the words and not have her brain comprehend their meaning. If only she could use his love as a buffer zone against the twinge of the meanings of the words. She finds comfort in his arms and in his kisses. She finds comfort in herself when she is with him. Underneath those words, deep underneath, she finds his love.

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