Originally posted elsewhere, June 4, 2014
I spent some time actually researching some of the MRA, PUA, and assorted other neckbeard communities online. Endless hours reading discussion threads, blog posts, and other drivel.
Over and over, one quite humorous observation hit me: Aside from some of the physical aspects, I am their ideal girlfriend.
Me. Outspoken, anti-them, feminist me. Oh, the lulz.
How is this possible?
For starters, I make the sammiches. I like making the sammiches. I cook the meals, I clean the bathroom, I sweep the floors and change the sheets and straighten the clutter.
I like to nurture. I like to serve. Every day, I wake Him up with a cold drink in hand, and gently nudge Him out of hitting the snooze button that one more time. He comes out of the bedroom all bleary-eyed to a cup of coffee made just the way He likes it, with a meal usually minutes from being ready. I pack His lunch for work, often roll His cigarettes, and see Him off in some stage of nakedness, more often than not.
I send Him flirty/dirty text messages at work. Sometimes, there are even pictures.
When He gets home, there’s hot coffee and a naked bitch waiting. We do whatever He needs to do to wind down from His day. Often, that includes really awesome sex.
I like sex. Not just a little bit, and not just one specific kind of sex, or one specific position, or lights-off face-hiding-in-shame sex. I like fucking.
I love that no-foreplay, throw-me-down-and-bang-me-like-a-screen-door-in-a-thunderstorm sex. That moment when we’re staring at one another across some short distance, and we both know there’s about to be a pouncing, violent, raunchy, fast, vicious, hard, fuck, and the only real question is who’s going to pounce first.
I love the moment when He shoves me up against a wall, pins me there with one hand and a glare, and rams His fingers into my cunt until the only thing holding me up is His grip on my throat or my hair or my clothes.
I love my head hanging backwards off the bed, barely able to breathe past His cock sliding down the back of my throat until I gag and gag and choke and flail. I love that one sweet, cool gasp of air, before He grabs my tits like handlebars and fills my throat all over again.
I love that split second of shame, when He’s pushed my face down onto the floor, and I feel His saliva sliding down the crack of my ass, just before He slams into me, relentless, and I scream into the cold concrete. I push back against Him, and scream some more, as He wraps His hand in my hair to hold me right where He wants me.
I’m not just accepting His sexual overtures, passively allowing Him to plod His way to orgasm… oh, HELLNAW. I’m a growling, moaning, groaning, whimpering, pushing back, biting, clawing, thrusting, feral, shameless three-holed whore for Him. And I love it.
And I know I am not the only one. I’m not the only kinky feminist who does these things, not the only consent activist who crawls across the floor and across her lover’s lap, begging for a spanking or a cock down her throat.
Oh, and I don’t give two shits who pays for what. If I have the money, I pay. I paid for the hotel room, the first time we had sex. Why? Because I fucking wanted to fuck Him, and I happened to have the extra cash for the room. And I wanted to fuck Him, at least in part, because He is not like them.
And I read the pathetic little “sarging strategies,” and I laugh, and laugh, and laugh.
Then, I masturbate to gangbang porn, and send my Owner a nasty picture of me sucking my juices off my fingers.
And I laugh some more. Because they will never get it.
Kink in the Real World 