I keep coming across these people who confuse “narcissism” with “self-love”.
I think of self-love as a funny euphemism for jerking off. But we’ll get to that in a bit.
You can love yourself and still love others. It’s a really good jumping off point.
The love I feel for my people now is so much bigger, better and comes with a whole new level of understanding now that I have spent some time figuring out who I am and actually liking what I found.
Narcissists not so much.
Narcissism, in the simplest of definitions, is a pathological inability to see someone else’s worth beyond what can serve them personally.
They deny the very existence of any emotion that belongs to someone else because they don’t experience their own.
It’s a tangible disconnect from the rest of the human race.
Predatory, but with less gratitude than a lion shows for its kill. No quick, merciful death.
Like ants milk katydids. Or humans milk cows. Keep them captive, alive and use them until they are spent, then turn them to glue.
Been there, met him, dated him for a while. Then found his evil twin and dated him too, and another and another.
They’ll keep getting what they want by any means necessary and cast you aside after they are through with you.
Then they come back for more once you have built yourself up even the slightest bit.
Sounds like fuckboi behavior, and sometimes they are one in the same, but not always.
Sometimes fuckbois need love too, and they know not what they do. They can evolve.
Narcissists don’t think they need to change/evolve/improve. They are all ego all the time, and they are always right, even when twisting the definition of narcissism to make me feel bad about my selfies.
Narcissism isn’t those who strive to capture moments and share with the world. It isn’t those who have figured out how to love themselves in a world determined to make certain they don’t. I am tired of the selfie wars. If you feel good about yourself, celebrate it for fuck sakes. No judgements here.
I know plenty of people with low self-esteem who have an Instagram account full of the moments they did feel good. Like an archive you can scroll back through on the bad days. I am one of them.
Whatever gets you through the day.
Do no harm, and take some selfies.
So, there is another thing that climbs on my nerves.
No one will know how to love you until you love yourself.
It’s a narcissist anthem.
They make sure you can’t possibly love yourself and then tell you it’s your own fault.
Get fucked. Shut up and stop telling people that.
That is like punishing someone and setting them waaaaaaay back for a very sad yet really natural state of existence.
Being comfortable in your own body is a hard won war. But if you can win, it makes being touched/loved/fucked ever so much better.
I’ve found so much comfort and joy in my brave moments wherein I share who I really am and acceptance comes rushing in from outside.
Some of the sweetest words I have ever heard are ‘me too’ coming from the right mouth in the right moment.
However…that being said …
No one will know how to make you cum until you have figured it out yourself.
Mildly over-stated, and possibly just a personal phenomenon but I have found the more I accept my body and figure out what it is capable of on my own, the easier it is to achieve orgasm with someone else.
Once upon a time I realized how magic my pussy is, and despite a few attempts from men who wouldn’t know magic if it squirted in their face, I kept this belief as the truth. Or I thought I did.
I should have called this blog Our Lady of Playing with Herself or Our Lady of Perpetual Orgasms.
I talk about my vagina a lot, and I play with her even more.
And yet, I found myself humbled and I fumbled when someone took an active interest in what makes me cum.
I was afraid of being judged by this man, losing him even, over the things I want in bed. Or hearing the dreaded “ew’.
Luckily, I’ve met a creature very similar to myself in that he revels in getting me off.
The more noises I make, the wetter I get, the happier he is, the harder he gets etc etc.
And the happier he, is the wetter I get.
If we don’t explode, we might just work.
It had been so long since someone asked me that, I had no idea how to answer.
See above where I dated narcissists for a long time and resigned myself to being a vehicle for someone else’s orgasm.
I am naturally submissive and that got taken advantage of on a grand scale.
I stumbled over the words. Me, the woman who writes about sex daily.
But I write about my exes and I knew exactly what they wanted, because I learned them.
How do I confess my deepest darkest wants that only really serve me and my body, to an audience of one?
A little bit at a time.
Some of my kinks have been so buried under misplaced shame, I don’t even know what they are anymore.
Part of my struggle is trying to remember, separate what is mine from what has been planted in my brain.
I want to feel safe enough to say ‘please sir can I have some more.’
I have these insane tantric orgasms that reach my fingertips and last for an hour when I fuck myself.
What if I could do that with someone I trust implicitly? Who gets me slippy-slide wet just by being himself, who not only tolerates my post-orgasm giggles but encourages them?
I’ve reverted back to my natural state of “am I allowed to __________ (fill in the want).”
And the answer is always yes.
Everything that has managed to squeak past my lips has been met with acceptance.
Even the weird things I haven’t told my girlfriends (and they know A LOT) have elicited the coveted response of ‘good girl’.
That’s the difference between being conquered and being explored.
The difference between being used and being enjoyed.
I enjoy being used, I truly do, but by someone who gathers me up in his arms after, kisses my forehead and calls me ‘his girl’. And means it.
Follow your bliss and doors will open where before there were only walls.