I’m addicted to penises.
I crave them, pursue them, slay them and discard them.
Unapologetic sexual liberation comes at a price for all females. The opprobrium of being associated with promiscuity and salaciousness.
What is it about ‘dick’ that consumes my days and nights?
Am I looking to be filled up or fulfilled? Am I looking to give or be taken?
Will I ever find a penis that will suffice for repeated and faithful usage? Or will I continue to chase this elusive beast? A slave to my addiction.
Fifty Shades of Grey may have gone mainstream but fierce female sexuality is imprisoned by a concrete wall built from political correctness. I climb the wall, open my legs wide and scream.
Female sexuality has to be written about from a certain perspective otherwise it won’t be published.
If you censor your voice and tone down your truth — editors will LOVE you. But I refuse to tone down my ‘sexual voice’ for anyone.
My desire for a variety of ‘dick’ burns deep within my pussy and soul. It penetrates me like the men who drive their phallic swords.
As I walk the city streets, my eyes dart over the mob of masculinity.
My thoughts descending to their belt-buckles and what exists beyond.
I imagine what each dick would feel like filling up my orifices.
I envisage the imagery of our unlived penetration.
I am distracted — taken away from my tasks, my work, my life.
Their dicks are invading me…even when they’re not.
If my imagination responds positively about ‘the dick’ in question. I pounce like a famished feline.
Like a true addict, I’m in a meditative trance whilst I’m getting my fill.
It’s the ultimate sensory overload. My cells awaken. My body feels wondrously alive.
But after ‘my fill’ and it’s associated high. I’m out looking for another dick to fill up my literal and metaphorical holes.
I’ve been trying to fill these holes with other things for two decades — alcohol, drugs, food, art and love but nothing can compete with the almighty penis.
Dick is the only drug that can erase the emptiness — temporarily.
Did this need and consistent yearning for dick manifest somewhere in my tumultuous past? Or is it an innate part of me?
I’ve always felt that it’s the latter!
For I don’t know who or what I am without dick.
So here I am — an open-pored creature that lots of men go through.
But I’m not the victim, I’m the perpetrator.
Their dicks are like ice-cream flavors that I’m privileged to sample — chocolate, bubblegum, cookie-dough, blueberry cheesecake and butterscotch ripple.
I fill up on them.
I am ADDIC(K)TED.