Please don't be sad, it's not your fault

Sat, 09/16/2017 - 19:26 -- ahxra

I used to think sex was so special. My parents didn't call it sex, they called it making love. They told little Mélissa that making love was something special two people do when they are in love with each other. They are making, they are creating, they are having something beautiful.  My first time, I knew I didn't want to have sex with him. I knew it wasn't right, I knew I didn't love him, and I knew his empty words of love fell like shadows on my ears. I did it, however, because it was just sex. It was sexual penetration. A man and a woman, no, a mere girl, doing something that most girls my age did with no second thought with the first person who they met on a night out. "So you've been dating for a month and you're wondering if you should have sex with him?" One asked. "If I'd known him for a night I'd have sex with him.". I wanted it to be special, and it wasn't. No boy that I have been with has loved me before they had had sex with me. They'd think I'm okay, maybe nice (god, I had the word). It's when they stick their dick in you that they think "yeah maybe I could get used to this". I've just had sex. I'm sat here naked, covered by a bath towel, with mascara running down my cheeks and a feeling of emptiness inside of me. I would have hoped he cared. I would have hoped that they all cared. But when they tell you they love you after they've loaded off inside of you, it's hard to believe that they like you for your personality and good humour.

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