BY MISSY SCOTT
I come from a long line of misbehavers and rule breakers. Whilst other children were raised on limits and moderation, conditioned to possess a healthy appetite for self preservation and to acknowledge their own mortality; I was quite the opposite.
My parents instilled in me the firm belief that rules are meant to be broken, virtually anything is possible, that there is nothing better than a good con man and that charisma, imagination and intelligence are the core qualities of any person worth a dime.
The words of wisdom granted to me by my parents, if written down or spoken aloud, would easily be mistaken for famous Hunter S. Thompson or Charles Bukowski quotes. Average and mediocre were frightening words in my childhood home. Perhaps the only thing that was not acceptable was for me to be ‘so-so’ at anything that I did.
“If you’re going to be bad, all I ask is that you be fucking good at it,” my Dad had said to me when I was no more than 8.
“There’s actually a certain kind of appeal, a certain kind of art, that comes along with chaos and carnage.”
Suffice to say I blame, or as my therapist prefers me to say — ‘attribute’— this kind of reinforcement for a lot of things in my life.
Particularly my attitude and preferences when it comes to men and sex.
Is it any wonder that the girl raised by two rebellious, anarchist dreamers and taught never to settle for the status quo, resists the ordinary when it comes to sex and love as well?
You already know how unapologetic I am about loving, needing and craving cocks (only the very
best, of course) but my preferences when it comes to sex are perhaps more liberal, daring and decadent.
I feel the same way about sex as many do about coffee. It is entirely necessary and without it I struggle to function. I am foggy and despondent. Everything is difficult. All the colour flows out of the world; in fact it might even be the end of it.
But I want more from sex than just a pick-me-up or an orgasm, and I don’t care about feeling or being loved. In fact, I prefer it when there’s no emotion whatsoever; men are more willing to do what I need them to do if there isn’t.
Sex for me is a release. I am in control every day in my ordinary life. I was bred to be bold and confident; it comes naturally to me. I scare men.
When I fuck I want to feel the reversal. I want to feel desperate, needy and insignificant. I want to feel wonderfully unspectacular, the only way I know how, by being made to feel that way.
I know what you’re thinking: she’s talking about BDSM. But I’m not. It’s not as easily defined as that, or as rigid. I’m talking about the kind of sex where the only thing that matters is how well I can please the man I’m with.
‘Nice’ sex, love making, all of this holds no appeal. I want what every self-confessed bad girl slut wants; I want to be on my knees, bent over, on top — all the while taking orders and aiming to please.
I want it rough. I want sex that has conviction, sex that promises that life will be as intense as that moment and then some. I want the kind of sex that reminds me I’m alive.
I want my hair pulled, my arse spanked, my neck bit. I need to feel the rush that comes along with being completely consumed — and momentarily owned — by another human being.
As my Dad once said — if I’m going to be bad, I should be fucking good at it. Fact is, there is something special about embracing the chaos; along with all of its’ spontaneity, danger, unpredictability and craziness. Not only in sex, but in life itself.
I’ll never apologise for being naughty. Besides, when it comes to sex the word ‘good’ seems to be synonymous with mediocre.