My fault or yours?

I’m not even angry that I’ve put myself in this situation again. Hanging on to a father figure, praying he would just love me – and fuck me. I want to feel all the time like I do when I’m around these funny, intelligent and caring men. Because I just cannot get enough of the feeling of being desired by them; of being their Jolene or Lolita. I’m everything they think they want. Everything they fantasied about when they wanted to escape the monotony of life.
And I purposely fall in love with them all. To see how much they desire me. How far someone will go to take a piece of me; because they all take a piece. I let them, as thank you for allowing me to fall in love with them. I’ll take any love I can. I will die without it; like Aphrodite and the other gods died when people started worshipping foreign idols. Sex is the incentive. It’s how I make them love me. I exploit their weakness for their sexual desires; and I make them wait so the tension builds and the mere thought of me sends sensations all through their bodies, until they can’t wait to be close enough to grab me and steal me away. That sensation is the best feeling in the world.
However, fantasies are best kept as fantasies. When people see all your missing pieces and notice the botch job you’ve made of repairing yourself, they suddenly don’t need you as passionately as they did before. They can’t fuck a broken thing. They don’t want to. You are now something completely different to them. Something on the verge on collapse. All the vulnerability and humour they found so endearing before isn’t attractive. When you haven’t got the body they want to touch, you haven’t got sex and, in my experience, you have got nothing.

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