Sluts Everywhere

I have always fallen for women the polite world calls sluts. Maybe the word is crude, but it matches the fever that took hold the day I watched Jan B make her cuckold drink another man’s cum straight from her pussy. She smiled, he swallowed, and my cock got harder than it had any right to be. Ever since, I measure desire by how brazenly a woman flaunts the power of her body.

She Doesn’t Hide#

There is nothing hotter than a woman who knows she is irresistible and wields that fact without apology. Some of them announce it; others dress the part of “respectable,” but the way they walk, the curve of their grin, always betrays them. I crave that unashamed energy because it mirrors what I wish I could be—unfiltered, indulgent, impossible to ignore.

Sluts On Every Side#

They show up in every flavor. I’ve met polyamorous queens whose vegan partners pick at salad while the women chase sausage and climax in the same night. Don’t try to convince me he keeps up with her appetite; I have seen the hunger in her eyes when the party really starts.

Then there are the sleek liberals with sugar daddies who fund their spa days, handbags, and rooftop bubbles. They text me from black cars, thighs crossed, telling me about the next flight, the next gift, the next mouth they plan to ride. Their lives feel like a delicious crime I get to witness, and I ache to be the willing accomplice.

What I’m Owning#

• I am not here to save them; I’m here to bask in the heat they throw off.
• I’m jealous of their freedom to be obscene, of the men who get sanctioned access to it.
• I romanticize their extremes, whether it’s theory-soaked feminists who preach mid-thrust or sugar babies negotiating orgasms and rent in the same breath.

That is my confession: sluts set the rhythm of my fantasies. I call them goddesses in private because they never asked for my devotion, yet I keep handing it over—again, again, again.