I had always had a thing for power. But I didn’t care about being powerful myself. There was no fun for me being a powerful woman. What I wanted was to be the mastermind behind the power — the woman who has power over a powerful man. That got me off like nothing else whether I was in or out of bed with said man.
My lovers told me a lot of things — mostly things about myself that I didn’t realise I had or lacked thereof. Or things about themselves that I didn’t anticipate or could have anticipated but chose not to. Sometimes they were just passing comments that my lovers would very soon conveniently forget but somehow they got stuck at the back of my mind.
I would do anything for money. Well, I would do most things for a good amount of money. My rules are simple. I don’t mind danger, don’t mind dirt, don’t mind humiliation, don’t mind pain. The only things I strictly don’t do are prostitution, killing and love. As for the rest, it’s always a matter of assessing the pros and cons, a question of whether the money is handsome enough for the risk to be worth it, and a problem of me making decisions based on my mood.
I’ve been questioning myself lately what is a good life for a 22 year old and I’ve come to a conclusion that a good life should include having as much great sex as possible. Not just good, but great, healthy sex. The sex that satisfies you, empowers you, makes you glow like a fucking walking LED and doesn’t leave you feeling dirty and shameful.