I Just Don’t Get It

I am aware (mostly because I’m told over and over) that my writ­ing res­onates with women. In the begin­ning, I was… appre­hen­sive because I thought I expressed myself in too much of a “girly” fash­ion, with poetry and writ­ing about emo­tions and gen­er­ally being soft and fluffy. I just wrote because I needed to express what was going on inside me; writ­ing is my way of self-​​examination, I suppose.

Now, how­ever, you would not believe how val­i­dat­ing and how emo­tion­ally ful­fill­ing it is to have mag­nif­i­cent women and beau­ti­ful souls reach out to me and say that I touched them. It seems that only the most giv­ing, the most open, the most… fem­i­nine of women are taken with my writ­ing so almost every sin­gle woman I meet or com­mu­ni­cate with is a stun­ning exam­ple of every­thing that is good in the world.

When I first signed on to FetLife, I did so even though I thought I would be ostra­cized or at least looked on funny because of my aber­rant per­son­al­ity and approach to things. I thought that no woman in her right mind would be inter­ested in some­thing like me. And it turned out to be the com­plete oppo­site instead.

Since I came out in pub­lic, both online and locally, I have met the most incred­i­ble women. None of the women I met when I was play­ing at being vanilla came even close to the radi­ant fem­i­nin­ity of the women that live this life along­side me.

I am so much in the dark about what’s going on. I am butt-​​ugly and chubby and a mean, sadis­tic bas­tard. Luck­ily, it appears that the women around me are selec­tively near­sighted. While I know that the way I express myself and the emo­tions that rage deep within, res­onate with all these incred­i­ble and beau­ti­ful women, I just don’t get it. I can’t wrap my brain around it.

It sounds weird but it’s true. Not too long ago, Khan­droma was try­ing to make me see it and she made me look at “my sta­tis­tics.” She had me go back through my rec­ol­lec­tion of all of my inter­ac­tions and it was actu­ally shock­ing for me: Every woman I have reached out to kiss has melted in my arms. Every woman I have reached out to take has given her­self to me. Every woman I have played with (even casu­ally) has cried tears for me. Even the ones that swear that they never, ever cry.

All of them. Every. Sin­gle. One.

I actu­ally felt nau­se­ated when I made that real­iza­tion on the phone with Khan­droma and she was smug the rest of the day, adorable lit­tle kit­ten that she is. Still, to this day I don’t under­stand why. The more open I allow myself to be, the more truth­ful about the true me, heck, the more I hurt these won­der­ful crea­tures, the more they like me.

Can’t they see what I am? Can’t they see how dark my eyes become when they crum­ble emo­tion­ally? Can’t they see how psy­chotic my eyes become? I mean, when she lies crum­bled on the floor, cry­ing, then is when I descend on her and pen­e­trate her and take her.

While she’s cry­ing, for good­ness sakes.

What’s wrong with me? Noth­ing.

What’s wrong with her? Noth­ing.

It just is.

And still, I don’t get it. They are angels; warm, giv­ing, lov­ing, nur­tur­ing and com­pas­sion­ate and they choose to be with me.

Don’t get me wrong; I’m not complaining.

I just don’t get it.