I’ve always been a slut. It’s as much a part of me as my blood type or eye colour. I’m not sure if it’s the thrill of all the attention, the delicious agony of being used or the pure physical hedonism of sex. And it doesn’t really matter.
Men have looked at me since I first hit puberty. I suppose every girl experiences that to a certain extent. The difference perhaps, is that I have loved it since the moment it started. Sometimes it’s a flutter in my stomach or a sly smile to myself as they pass by. As I got older, it became rushing home to touch myself after a moment of shared eye contact. I couldn’t let the buzz of being physically appreciated go unnoticed. Getting myself off to the thought of seducing perfect strangers and friends alike was fun, but it never dulled the desire. If anything, my daily fantasies were only encouraged. Don’t get me wrong; I have standards, just no shame.
My imagination grew out of control, and I had mentally fucked every reasonably attractive guy that I knew. Anyone interesting that passed me on my commute, the hot guys from work, new friends, old friends – each one of them had been inside me. Each one of them had jostled the others out of the way to taste me.