PRIDE - Even the Internalised Sort

I fancied you when I met you - oh, didn’t we all? Six-foot-something, heavily tattooed and pierced, one of those ridiculous to-die-for bodies, you quickly became the heart throb of our large cluster of misfits. I knew of at least five girls who had fallen head over heels for the tough guy looks and gorgeous smile, so I stuck to being your mate instead. Like I had a chance.

Maybe it felt once or twice like there was chemistry... I put it down to wishful thinking. At eighteen, you in your mid twenties seemed far too sophisticated. You had a girlfriend (have had ever since, for that matter) and too many girls after you, most of whom saw me as the safe platonic friend to ask “do you think he likes me?” and it was a stab wound, every time, to know you’d fancy them over me.

Only... I was completely, utterly wrong, and weren’t they all. Because under that hardcore exterior and behind closed doors you are THE single sissiest boywhore I have ever had the pleasure of, and my god have I had the pleasure of you in every way I can think of.

So next summer, whilst they are swooning over you in your vest top and cut-offs, I will be grinning at the memory of you in stockings and ribbons and frilled lace; in rubber; in cuffs and soaked underwear with the word ‘slut’ scrawled across that lovely washboard stomach. You ARE a slut, my slut, and a brilliantly imaginative and enthusiastic one at that. When they finish fishing for compliments and come to tell me that you’ve said they’ve got nice eyes, or you like their hair, I will smile and “oh really, wow”. I’ll be dying to tell them the things you’ve said to me, about me, about yourself, offered to do or in fact done in my name, but I’ll content myself with remembering how you sound whimpering, praying, begging not even for anything specific but purely groveling because I am your Goddess and you adore me.

And whilst I’m attached now and you should probably sort yourself out, I will forever take delight in remembering that you were my bitch.