This is work of fiction – and not really filth.
THIS IS A WORK OF FICTION.
(And it’s not really filth)
She kept thinking about the people that she’d fucked and whether that had changed her in anyway. Like whether each individual experience had altered her perception of herself or if she had opened herself up to a layer of numbness that she didn’t know existed before. She wondered if she’d be the same person if she was still a virgin, more open to newness and hopeful perhaps, or whether she’d still feel dead and empty and suspicious. Each different encounter was just that – a separate little entity, many of which were hazy and tainted through retrospect.
She thought about that guy that kept pinching the back of her knee while they were having sex, which was really distracting, and how she couldn’t get him to leave the house the next day.
She thought about the hot guy with dreads that exploded when she decided to clench.
She thought about the time she had sex in the park and saw a youngish man watching but didn’t stop and made direct eye contact with him the entire time instead.
She thought about the guy that had text her saying that when he was finished with her ‘she wouldn’t be able to walk’ and was correct.
She thought about the time that she had wobbly legs from having five orgasms in the space of a morning with someone who mashed his face into her.
She thought about the guy who held her head so tightly that she couldn’t but make eye contact.
She thought about the guy that told her firmly to get on all fours and the mess left after on her and the couch.
She thought about the person that farted when they came.
She thought about the guy that slapped her ass so much that it was bruised afterwards.
She thought about the time she got jizz in her eye and how it swelled up.
She thought about the time she told a guy to leave straight after and went back to sleep.
She thought about the time she didn’t take off her shoes because it was too much effort and she wanted to leave straight after.
She thought about the role playing.
She thought about every filthy word, picture, secretion and hole.
She thought about handcuffs, toys and porn.
She thought about the toilet cubicles.
She thought about it all and smiled. She used to feel guilty. Like she shouldn’t enjoy herself. Like she couldn’t talk about it without feeling dirty or judged. She was grand though. She just never mentioned it.
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