A Renegade Sex Charm
I’ve always had fun talking about it. Buying vibrators, researching them, and talking to other women about them. I enjoy wrestling between sheets or without them. My preference is without sheets since they get in the way anyways.
Yet, I find sex the ultimate act of vulnerability. Standing in front of someone literally naked is a certain sort of terrifying.
It’s also the kind of exciting unlike any other adrenaline rush incomparable to anything else out there.
There are scars on both my knees from falling down all the time. Mainly from weak, unpredictable ankles that would go out randomly at the age of seven. My right kneecap is larger than my left because I primarily fell onto this. joint. There’s a gnarly scar on one of my weakest ankles. It aches with disembodied pain but I cover it up so well I hear constantly, “you’re walking fine!”
I keep my winces and grimaces for behind bedroom doors.
I have trouble with getting close to people. I don’t connect well with others. A friend recently asked how many friends I had as a kid.
“None.” I reply. An eyebrow of theirs pops up and I mumble maybe one more than none? I didn’t get along much with girls my age. They wanted to play with dolls, I wanted to study and collect insects. And, get incredibly dirty for the fuck of it. The boys kicked me out of their renegade group because I developed way too early. Even as a kid, I loved intellectually sparing with people. My weapons are ideas, words, and existential things.
I exude tension from my sex pores, and I don’t mean to. It’s just I get the little nuances and tells of someone being attracted. And I play off them even though I think my sex appeal is that of a rowdy, rough and tough Tom Boy. I’m the opposite of delicate in the way I move, look, everything. I was raised like a boy. I despised dresses and panty hose that caused my legs to itch like crazy.
My gaze can say come hither or fuck off within seconds.
I challenge men physically, intellectually, and I enjoy being with someone who gives me new ideas. Supported by facts and a different theological design.
“You’re so innocent. I don’t want to corrupt you,” a guy my same age muttered to me. I was at an age where my innocence was far gone. I remember chortling to myself why people perceived me as this little ‘angel.’ I swore constantly and dabbled with my body way too early. But, it made me pretty knowledgeable about the buttons within myself to push for an O success.
I was born with a non-existent halo, thank you. I just can’t seem to get my clothes off with another person. My mind constantly plays out scenarios and I chose the one where I’m at home in pajamas. The choice which allows me to not shed any emotional barriers. I keep them up to remain safe.
Tell me again how you see this innocence. Where is it hiding?