me thinking.
Scary though, huh?
He says in it:
"I am someone who has now scratched “the itch.” What’s the itch? The itch is
that niggling question in the back of your mind that drives you to become a
pickup artist. The hole that you can’t fill in yourself. I filled it. I got the
message. I’m not ugly and women like to have sex with me."
I know that itch. That creeping, frightened insecurity that you're not *really* good enough, not *really* pretty, bright, or likable enough. The one born out of a childhood of being teased, of being the skinny, awkward bookworm with family secrets. The one that drives you to stare at your own body in the mirror with a dissatisfied frown for long moments. The one that drives men to become pickup artists and women to become discreet (or not so discreet) sluts.
Now, for the record, I got a lucky bag of genetics and have nearly an ideal female body with no effort on my part. I'm 5"3, 110lbs, 32D/25/36. I'm slender but very curvy, and I've never once had a complaint about my body since I first grew tits.
Does that matter one damned bit to my insecurities?
Of course not.
That itch still sits in the back of my head, and whispers that the only proof of being pretty enough, likable enough, good enough is to make a man's dick hard.
Misogynistic, huh?
Then again, that little voice isn't very PC. It doesn't care what my forebrain says. Despite my voracious bisexuality, it doesn't care what women think of me. Just men. Just dicks, hardening at the sight of my tits displayed in one of my low-cut tank tops.
When I was 17, I got my heart broken by a man I believed loved me.
Ok, I'll be fair. He did love me. But he still broke my heart, and it still tore my fragile self-esteem to shreds.
And for a while, I listened to that voice, and I made every dick hard I could manage to. And at 17-18, well... that was a lot of dicks.
Most of them I never did anything more with. But enough. Enough. Enough for my forebrain to call a halt to the circus and convince me that I should get married.
But not enough to quiet that little voice in the back of my head that still tells me the same thing it did when I was 17.
And yes, I'm self-aware enough to know this about myself. I know even while I'm bending forward and showing my cleavage what I'm doing, and I know why. When I'm flirting with you, teasing you, hinting at all the naughty things I like to do with the so subtle implication that I'm telling you because maybe I'd like to do them with you... I know what I'm doing.
And I know why.
I want you to want me so I can feel good about myself.
Maybe one day I'll scratch the itch too, as Bad Man put it. I wonder what will happen then.
But as I told him:
"I don’t know what will happen when I reach the tipping point, when I finally
figure out at a gut-deep level that I really *am* okay as I am, without
somebody’s dick getting hard.
But since I really do enjoy sex one hell of a lot, I can’t imagine it’ll change much that I actually do, just the motivations behind it."
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