Why I Became a Slut

I met my first husband in high school. I lost my virginity to him in the front seat of his Blazer down at the park on the way home from a date one night. It wasn’t quite the way I had imagined my first time – rose pedals on the bed, soft kisses in the golden light of a Sunday afternoon spilling over us through sheer curtains, gentle, caring, both us getting pleasure from it, feeling loved. It was quick, rushed, almost like he was trying to see if he could get away with it. Afterwards, he dropped me off with a kiss on the cheek, backing out of the driveway before I even had the door to my parents’ house open.

I should have known then, but I was young and believed him when he told me he loved me. And you know what? Maybe he did, at some point. On some level. Would you believe in his own special way? As much as any horny teenage boy could love the naive little girl who put out for him. If I had known any better, I would have dumped him after the first time. Instead, my stupid ass agreed to marry him.

The sex never really improved, but he treated me well. We had a couple of kids together, two wonderful boys. He worked hard and provided for us. He was a model dad and a good husband. But he was an absent lover. We would have sex a couple of times a week, and it always went down the same way (no actual going down involved, unless it was me, of course).

He would come into the room and take off his watch. Yes, that was his signal. The watch coming off the wrist was my cue to get ready. I’d have plenty of time, though, because he still had to take off his work shirt, his undershirt, his shoes, socks, slacks, and boxer briefs. Mind you, I had to act like I was in the mood this whole time. (Two boys and sixteen years later, I didn’t even know what a “mood” was.)

Then, he would climb into the bed, under the covers, and onto me. Now, neither one of us was quite as small as we’d been back in high school, so having my chubby overweight husband, the inattentive love of my life, lying on top of me was not the most comfortable position to be in at night when it was time to be getting ready for bed so I could be up with the boys in the morning. Especially since pressing our bellies together meant that things didn’t reach as far as they used to, if you know what I mean.

He would eventually figure out how to maneuver so that he could enter me, and he would do this every time like it was the first time and it was news to him that his willy didn’t fully make it to my hoo-ha any longer. Once he got in, it would only take a few good pumps for him to finish. He’d grunt and wiggle above me like a helpless man-child, climb off, roll over, and be snoring before I could even grab a towel off the floor to wipe myself.

Eventually, we divorced. I found out that the nights he was fucking me were the nights he couldn’t get some other woman – excuse me, some other girl – to wet his dick for him. Yeah, he liked them young. He was finding girls online between the ages of eighteen and twenty-one. He’d meet them after work – yeah, when he was “working late” (come on, dude, be original) – and take them out to eat then back to a hotel where he’d sleep with them. Sometimes, though, he’d skip dinner and just fuck ‘em.

I found so many pictures of girls on his phone. Young and thin, small tits, shaved twats, tight little asses, tight little holes that hadn’t squeezed any children out or taken too many dicks in. He’d even taken pics with them, his dick stuffed their teeny little asses – something I never let him do. There were pics of innocent looking sluts looking up at him with their lips wrapped around his shaft, taking every short stubby inch into their small mouths.

It would have been hot if it hadn’t been so damn deceitful and disrespectful. There were girls in cuffs and blindfolds. There were voice clips of these young girls calling him Daddy. Not gonna lie; once I got over the initial shock, I imagined a couple of them calling me Mommy. It’s just how my brain works, okay? Don’t judge.

I packed up. The boys came with me. I had a lawyer draw up and deliver the papers. He signed. We parted ways. Now he probably spends every night balls deep in one naive little co-ed or another. I don’t care.

I spent eighteen years of my life (sixteen of marriage and two of getting used for sex without a ring) with a single partner while that partner spent most nights of the week fucking different ones. It’s a fucking miracle I didn’t catch anything from those girls. I’d sold my youth for loyalty and this foolhardy notion of the sanctity of love. Fuck that.

It was time to get fucked. Literally fucked.

If he could do it, I could, too. I downloaded a few dating apps and started swiping through men, looking at all the slobs who thought they were hot shit like my ex-husband. I wanted something attractive. I wanted to know I could land a hottie just like he had. So I found a guy, a younger guy, of course.

He was twenty-three to my thirty-six. He wasn’t one of these over-the-top cartoon characters with ultra-ripped abs and pecs. He was fit and toned. He took good care of himself. He had messy dirty blonde hair and light brown eyes. Tall and lean with a kind smile that showed in his eyes.

He held the door for me and insisted on paying for dinner. I tried to argue – this was my night, dammit. I was landing him, not the other way around, but he won. He paid. I let the kid be a gentleman for the night. But when he took me home, I wasn’t letting him off the hook so easily.

I invited him up “for a dink or some coffee.” Okay, I was new to this. I didn’t know what he wanted, and I wasn’t sure if saying, “Hey, babe, why don’t you come up and show me how you guys are doing it these days?” would work.

He did come up, and he did show me how it was done. That young man turned every way but loose. He had me on the edge of the bed with my knees pulled up while he crouched down in front of me and fucked me with his tongue. He flicked my clit with the tip of it and slid that thing inside me like a cock. I had my first orgasm on his sweet young face, my thighs clenching around his head, my fingers burying themselves in his hair.

Before he ever sank his solid length inside me, he ravaged my body with his mouth and his hands, until I didn’t think I could take any more. He kissed every inch of me, caressed me from top to bottom, front to back. He’d sucked and licked and pulled my nipples with his tongue, lips, and fingers.

Then, he flipped me over. Bent over the edge of my queen-sized bed (mine, brand fucking new with my ex-husband’s money) I felt him spread my cheeks and position himself at the entrance to my already tired kitty. He pushed the tip in and slowly slid the rest of his sex inside me, filling me, thrilling me. I felt every throbbing inch of his rod drag itself back and plunge itself in. Over and over, until the ecstasy I felt made the room spin.

I came so many times with this first man. I came so hard I cried. I cried as his cock brought every regret I had to the surface. All the time I’d wasted. All the opportunities I missed. All of myself I gave up for one man who left me for girls who were adults only by law long before our marriage ended officially in divorce.

This young man, this twenty-something gave all of that back to me when he shoved his cock deep inside me, when I felt it growing impossibly harder and thicker. I felt it straining to contain his orgasm until he finally erupted and filled me with his warmth. His seed, spilling into my depths, gave me back my life. He filled me with possibilities and opportunities, making me realize it wasn’t over.

So, goddammit, I have accepted this new life in which I can control my sexuality on my own terms. I sleep with whomever I want. I have as many partners at one time as I want. If I want to fuck a woman, I will. If I want to fuck a man, I will. I am no longer bound to one sorry ass excuse for a human being. I only answer to my own desires.