Show me how it’s done!

I’m in the mood to write erotica.

No. Don’t fuck me. Make love to me. Just make nasty love to me so that fuck seems gentle.

No. Don’t make me feel important. I don’t care if you have to do another woman tomorrow. I don’t need the whole night with you. Just do me enough for me to remember the soft spots inside you.

No. Don’t make me feel strong. I have enough baggage of feminism and courage on my shoulders. Tell me it’s ok for my vagina to smell of loneliness and vulnerability.

No. Don’t make me feel beautiful. I have an unwanted line of people waiting to taste me. Turn my flab knobs and open up myself to me while I count the stretches on them.

No. Don’t make me feel sexy. I’m tired of horny men mastrubating to my erotica. Tell me my inner thighs are dark, black and smell like an antique clock.

No. Don’t make me feel like a woman. I have trouble coping up with uncomfortable lacy bras, short skirts, Kalamkari sarees and red bindhis. Tell me I moan like a baboon and suck like a leach.

No. Don’t bother staying until morning. I don’t like company during sunrise. Stay until the sun fucks the ocean and leave before her orgasm turns into shades of blue.

No. I don’t want to feel loved. I know what love is. Show me compassion. Flirt with me on the couch and say things that will shamelessly lead me on to the bed.

No. Don’t say a word.

Just show me how it’s done.