10.10.00
I was recently dubbed a 'sexy bitch' by someone in the know.
While I will accept this dubious distinction, I find it almost odd to have received such a striking appellation.
Sexy? Well, I've honestly never considered myself much of a sexual creature. Sensual? Yes, I love to touch, and to be touched in return. But sexual? I'm just not quite sure.
I used to know this person who wanted to do nothing more than to nibble, lick and gently stroke every square inch of the non-naughty bits of my body, from the soles of my feet to the tiny patches of skin behind my ears. He said he wasn't interested in me sexually, just that I had beautiful, delicious skin and he couldn't get enough of it, and had to have more.
To be honest, I couldn't have cared less about whether or not he 'wanted' to touch the naughty bits. He was a hottie, and I had an exceptionally low self-esteem*. (This was aeons ago. My self-esteem has improved slightly - it's only moderately low now.) I figured that if that was his line to get chicks, more power to him.
So, I let him lick, nibble and stroke ever square inch of the non-naughty bits of my body, from the soles of my feet to the tiny patches of skin behind my ears. And I believed him when he said that I had beautiful, delicious skin, because he believed it himself. He made me feel beautiful, and I didn't mind that he didn't want to have sex with me, because I realized that there was more to intimacy than sex itself.
To this day, I think I almost prefer close physical contact with someone that doesn't necessarily result in sexual congress, because sensuality is more intimate to me than sex generally ends up being. That's not to say that I don't like sex, because I do. I'm just saying that a nibble on my shoulder, a tongue tracing a lazy path down my spine, or the stroke of a hand along my side can do as much to inspire me as can the regular slap and tickle, if you know what I mean.
And, the Bitch part? I can attest to that personally, 100%.
*At some point I had faultily determined that if someone wanted in my pants that they liked me as a person, or that I somehow counted more. I validated my existence by the notches on my bedpost, figuring that if someone liked me enough to sleep with me, I mattered. My self-esteem was entirely based on my physical desirability as seen through the eyes of men.
However, I forgot to take into account that men (boys) of a certain age are totally controlled by what's in their pants, and that most of them probably wouldn't recognize me on the street the next day, much less care whether or not I counted or mattered more because I had slept with them.
Fortunately, I figured that out fairly early on, thanks to a few good men who almost single-handedly redeemed their gender for me. I do have to admit, though, that the first time someone turned down my offer of sex in lieu of conversation and friendship, I was confused as hell, wondering what was wrong with me. I got over it.
