Fuck Me Like a Doll

Fuck Me Like a Doll

I want to be fucked like a delicate, fragile, breakable Barbie. It’s ironic that I spend so much time making myself feel attractive only to have my efforts reversed in a matter of moments. I know men don’t care what I look like when we’re having sex but, to me, the destruction of everything I carefully put together feels excessive, revealing and invasive. Do you have to pull my hair? Do we have to get sweaty? Does my makeup have to be sacrificed? I know it’s lame but I dream of neat, composed sexual encounters. I want to remain intact while I climax. I like order.

One time I had sex all night and woke up feeling exposed. I felt so out of body that I could barely stay in the present moment. My guy asked if I was ok. “You haven’t said anything all morning,” he noticed. It wasn’t until after I got up and left his place that I was able to understand why I felt so paralyzed. It was because I looked and felt like a feral child. I was experiencing the aftershock of tantric sex (+ various substances) and it wasn’t pretty. It was worth it, but I would’ve loved to wake up looking the way I did when I walked into his apartment the night before.

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“I fantasize about looking picturesque & being handled gingerly.”

This has been my sentiment through my young adult life. At age 17 I sat in my therapist’s office and lamented my fear that no man would want me after seeing me without makeup (first world problem, I know). Ten years later and I realize it’s less about the man and more about me. It’s not that I’m uptight or opposed to having the best time ever, it’s just...frustrating. I usually oblige when I’m hooking up with someone who’s more on the rambunctious side. I don’t want to ruin the moment with my superficiality so I’ll take a shower with him and let the water melt away my presentation. I’ll let my $100 blowout shrivel to kinks. I’ll be unconventional. I’m a good sport. I’ll fantasize later about looking picturesque and being handled gingerly.

Years ago I posted something to the effect of “If my hair were done I’d have sex tonight...” (🤦🏾‍♀️) on my Facebook profile. One of my sisters responded with, “If it’s good sex you’ll sweat it out anyway.” She knew I was tripping. And now in hindsight I know I was too. Not just for posting a juvenile Facebook status, but for my distorted mindset. What was I thinking? Some of my best sex has been unruly and unhinged. There’s an animal instinct that thrives beneath pretense. It’s the kind of sex that happens when people trust each other and trade self-consciousness for openness. It actually gets me high. I crave it these days.

It’s strange that I toy with this unattainable beauty standard that I’ve created in my mind. But it’d be stranger if I still strived for it. It’s a game I’ll never win. So I surrender. I’ve grown immensely since the days I didn’t want to be seen without makeup. I’ve learned that you don’t get intimacy without vulnerability. Despite my fantasy—that’s all it is now—of being immaculately put together throughout my sexual experiences, I accept that it won’t be that way on most occasions. Every time I allow my barriers to be stripped away during sex I’m also permitting myself to connect with another person on a deeper level. I’m okay with letting my guard down for the sake of building a real bond with someone. If it forces me to self-accept and grow...fuck me like a rag doll.

I Am My Mother

I Am My Mother

Mr. Magic