Part of the Disgusted Series
As we walk out of your apartment arm in arm and into the elevator and wonder if you’re appalled, perhaps delightedly so, at how disgustingly easy it was to manipulate me into doing whatever deviant sexual act you chose for me to do, this night and the last. Quite frankly my self-esteem is so low right now that I’m not sure that I really give a shit but I decide to try.
I smile at you, laugh and flirt, letting you know that I believe I have finally found a man that I can actually like, and one who might like me just a little bit in return, all the while totally oblivious to the fact that you are the type of man that I should be seeking desperately not to attract.
But the truth is that I am like a moth attracted to a flame. I know I’m going to get burnt but I just can’t help myself. I should have learned my lesson by now, after the multitude of times that I’ve fucked up, but I haven’t. Despite myself I crave someone who is exactly like you.
Because you are a man and I an a woman and I want you to treat me, or perhaps what I really should say is mis-treat me, the way that nature intended a man to treat a woman.
You’re probably thinking about your friend right now, the guy who first told you about me. Over drinks he described to you how pathetically desperate I was for a date. But who could blame me?
After all I’m a single mom, a MILF in his words, with a daughter just entering college, an 18-year old daughter who was bordering just this side of promiscuity, couldn’t be an easy task. And your friend almost – almost – felt sorry for me. Not sorry enough, however, to prevent him from taking advantage of me.
He knew I was desperate for company, desperate for whatever scrap of affection I could get from a man and that’s when he decided to use me, even though he knew that our relationship, if you could even apply that word to describe it, was not going to go anywhere save for whatever he decided to do with me that night.