Knowing why something is never changes the fact that it is, and, when cause and effect become intertwined, the topic or question becomes convoluted and mind-boggling. For instance, if one knows why Johnny Quarterback is an arrogant, self-entitled douche, it doesn’t change the fact that he truly is a feminine hygiene product that one might use on a Midsummer’s Eve. Causality just adds self-spiraling repetition.
One can, by that line of thought, easily unravel millennia of philosophy. Why are we here? It doesn’t matter why we’re here; the fact that we are is what matters. Then, if we’re here, ought we do what we ought to do? Yes, because we’re here. But, why are we here?
As I began embracing my slutty compulsions, such thoughts plagued me. Did it matter why I was that way? What caused it, and does that matter? Woven throughout all this rumination was my heart’s desire, a love that completely consumed me. I wondered if true love eluded me because I was a slut, or if I was a slut because true love seemed to be an unrealistic fantasy. Whether my sluttiness was because of the treatment I received at the hands of my youthful tormentors, or in spite of it, went round and round in my mind, effect creating cause and vice versa.
Ultimately, none of that mattered. I found solace in convincing myself that slut-shaming was akin to the ignorant, fearful peasants brandishing torches. Being a pagan, that should have been double-jeopardy, but I found comfort in feeling above all the vileness. I was a slut, self-diagnosed, and my body and mind loved it. The loneliness and harrowing despair were things I could easily do without, but they could be managed, or at least concealed.
Slowly, I grew comfortable with everyone thinking that I was the sluttiest slut in all of slutdom. When I was in public, women would stare at me with hate and malice, and men would openly lust over my body. I never liked being treated like I was a trashy piece of fuck-meat to be used and tossed away—subhuman—but I did enjoy the power it gave me. I also learned to camouflage my intelligence; if I wanted to indulge my slutty needs, I needed to be cautious about revealing how smart I was. Smart, sexy, slutty women intimidate most men; they prefer vapid bimbos.
Like seducing others, revealing my intelligence became a game, fully integrated into my lusty habits. I’d pretend to have rocks in my head, but let a classical literature or scientific fact filter through. If they caught it and played along, my IQ suddenly, magically increased. Like most things in life, it wasn’t fair, but knowing that doesn’t change reality. This testing of the waters became my modus operandi for nearly everything in my life, including my slutty seductions—slutus operandi.
Having come to grips with the fact that I turned out exactly as the pitchfork-wielding villagers prophesied, I fell into my typical, youthful routines. Because of who I was and who my parents were, the benefit of the doubt, let alone a fair chance, was never extended to me. I had to do twice as much, three times better, and four times faster than anybody else just to get a nod of acknowledgment. That not only resulted in me having an incredibly strong work ethic, but it also gave me an insatiable hunger for anything that I enjoyed or was interested in. My slutty powers of seduction were honed with a similar intensity and all-consuming zeal. I hurled myself into my role with reckless abandon.
My only problem on the sexual side was that I was young, and, while I wasn’t inexperienced with sex, I really didn’t know what I was into. I knew that I loved to have orgasms, not there’s a single soul on the planet that doesn’t, but that was about it. By every gauge, measurement, and opinion, I was a trashy, nympho slut. It was a surreal revelation to realize that other than sex, sometimes with women, I hadn’t done much. Comparing my endeavors to the sex my peers in high school claimed to have been having, I was far beneath the average sexual activity of a local sixteen-year-old.
I couldn’t do anything about my aching heart or misery, but I could figure out what I enjoyed. I attacked that mystery with all the dedication and vigor that I applied to everything else in my life. Not knowing where to start or whom to begin with, I began with the one thing that gave me sexual thrills above and beyond anything else I’d ever done, up to that point.
Taking stock of what I knew I loved, it was a tiny list. I enjoyed masturbating several times each day, always beginning my morning with a few orgasms before I even pulled the covers off of me. The fact that I could cum quickly, easily, and repeatedly was a great bonus. I loved the hardness of man, not just his cock, but all of him. The softness of a woman and the magnificent way that she can get me off was like ambrosia for me, a perfect treat that one enjoys to the fullest but cannot partake of often.
I also enjoyed getting my lovers so worked up that they sexually attacked me. Men were more easily frenzied than women. All I needed to do to get a man to treat me like his personal fuck toy was to dress like a slut, talk like a horny, stupid slut, and let him know that everything I said or did was just to get him to fuck me. Women usually, but not always, needed to feel that emotional connection and mental stimulation.
What really turned me on, though, was being an exhibitionist slut. From introspection, I knew why showing off my nude body to complete strangers turned me on so much, but knowing the reasons had no bearing on the fact that it aroused me so much. There’s a truism that women are always completely aware of what they’re showing. The first time I flashed somebody was purely accidental, but the several hundred times since that moment were fully intentional, albeit unplanned.
Every time I showed off to somebody, my body overheated, my pussy gushed, and I’d grow so incredibly horny that the rest of the day and all the following night was spent with my fingers buried in my pussy. I had mentally linked my need for attention and validation to showing my body; it was as simple as that. Additionally, flashing random people was considered taboo, and the forbidden held extra appeal to me. That was where I began; my exhibitionist streak would be my starting ground. From there, I assumed that it would be easy to find willing people who wanted to help me explore my sexuality.
Finding clothing suited for wardrobe malfunctions was an easy task. I needed to look no further than my closet. Despite not making much money and never holding down a job, not needing to pay a mortgage or rent was quite an advantage. The house was very new, so it had top-of-the-line heating and air conditioning, as well as newer, efficient appliances. My financial needs were few, so I used what little money I earned to fulfill a childhood dream, new clothes. My need to be noticed and appreciated echoed in my clothing. Slutty, witchy, Bohemian, and barely-there garments dominated my choices.
My return to campus was without fanfare, but it became my new hunting ground for many reasons. Mainly, since I could only find part-time work—usually requiring a hair net and inquiring if they wanted French fries with that—I picked up a few classes to increase my knowledge. This time around, I signed up for classes that interested me. Additionally, people my age were there, a new supply of willing, young men arriving every few months. I’d learned through error and error, rather than trial and error, to not invite my playmates to my home.
As I was, at best, uncertain about my pagan upbringing, I studied theology. I felt that perhaps there were some cosmic answers out there that would lead me to inner peace. That never came about, but I did find a lovely, little bar that was patronized almost exclusively by grad students and the faculty. Far less rowdy than the meat-market and beer-fest of Pappa’s.
Der Garten was a quiet, tranquil place, filled with a motley crew of collegiate fringe types. Dark beer in pilsner glasses instead of cheap, salty, weak lager in a plastic bucket showed the contrast in attitude. The customers played darts and held quiet, intellectual discussions rather than attempting to fuck anything in a skirt and screaming about how manly they were. It was both safe and perfect.
There is, however, quite a disparity between going with the horny flow and planning it. Being horny, seeing an appreciative person gawking at you, and “accidentally” spreading your legs too far, ensuring that they catch a glimpse, a look, or, sometimes, a long, lingering stare of your red pubes and soaking-wet pussy was naughty, taboo, dirty, and so fucking hot. Planning it was nerve-racking.
My class was on Thursday and Friday evenings, and I had the entire week to think about what I was planning on doing. Nearly every waking moment was spent thinking about what I’d wear, how I’d act, or fantasizing about what would happen. That entire week was one, extended masturbation session. My self-absorbed feedback loop had been switched on and dialed up to full blast.
Although it was new territory for me, I discovered that I am a self-arousing sort of slut. Thinking about flashing random strangers got me so worked up that passion consumed me. Every time the thought of what I wanted to do crossed my mind, I had to immediately stop whatever I was doing and finger my pussy. When I went about planning what to wear, which involved trying on different outfits and combinations, I just had to experiment in the mirror to determine how well the garments would facilitate exposing my sensual charms. That always led to me gazing at myself in the mirror, fingering my needy clit.
In bed every night and each morning, the idea of exposing my dripping cunt and ass to somebody, then grabbing them and fucking them, was my last and first thought, always accompanied by multiple orgasms. It wasn’t just the act of sex and my incessant need for it that made me a slut. Thinking about doing something naughty made me drip; planning sexual activity made me so hot that my cunt spewed out hot, sexual lava like a volcano. I even got fired from my burger-flipping job on the Wednesday before I went to class; I’d been very late every day that week because I sat in my car for almost an hour, masturbating to multiple orgasms.
My wardrobe choices were barely socially acceptable, and I straddled the line between plausible deniability and being a wanton whore. A wispy, emerald green, wrap-around skirt that didn’t reach halfway down to my knees went quite well with my thin, heather brown textured, tight top. It was a scoop neck T-shirt, cut to enhance my curves and highlight the shape of my tits. Because the fabric was so light and thin, my breasts could be seen in shadows and highlights, and my nipples were more than obvious.
In class, while I studied the common, core beliefs that permeated several faiths, young, male theologians studied my slutty body, drooled over my almost-see-through top, and their cocks grew hard while they fantasized about fucking me. While I pretended to not notice, all the hungry eyes devouring my flesh had me in a sexual stupor. My nipples grew so hard, sticking out long and proud, and my pussy was so wet that I had a dark spot on the back of my skirt, after class.
As soon as class ended, I ran to the restroom, closed the stall door, and fingered myself to orgasm. My lust was so overpowering that I slammed my back against the stall wall, hiking up one foot, so I could access my pussy. My thighs were slick and shiny with horny dew, and my fingers easily slid deep inside my aching pussy. Fucking myself as fast and hard as I could, my free hand paused long enough to pull my shirt over my tits, exposing my swollen nipples to the air before it flew to my clit, savagely tugging, rubbing, and flicking.