You're frustrated with fucking. Fuckstrated, if you will.

You're fuckstrated with men. Men who treat you too kindly. Who sign up to Bumble because they consider messaging a woman first to be too aggressive, or perhaps too regressive. You go on a date and they bring up their pet dog and talk about the herb garden that they're growing and never once try to put their hand on your thigh or their teeth on your neck or their spit down your throat. You go home alone and they send you a message the next morning saying that they had wonderful time and hope to see you again.

It's your fault, of course. You were clear that you wanted to talk to liberals, people who shared your values, people who were instinctively feminist, who would willingly describe themselves as an ally, who are actively considering getting a tattoo of the ally flag.

You're fuckstrated with knowing that it's what you should want. A good left-winger like you knows that this is the partner you should be looking for. That you should be grateful to find. That you shouldn't spend your nights scrolling through right-wing websites, fingering your dripping cunt to the reams of degradation that spill out of their minds. That you shouldn't cum so fucking hard that your toes curl and your mind blanks as you imagine yourself as a traditional housewife, as a drooling slut, as an object, lesser, worthless, humiliated.

You're fuckstrated that you don't have someone to bend you over the kitchen counter as you're cooking, taking you without a word, fingers gripping your hair as you arch your back, breathlessly begging to be taken harder, to be owned more completely, to sink down to your knees and be marked by cum, to be known as a cum slut, a pathetic whore, a fuck toy.

This isn't to roleplay. This is real. You're fuckstrated with the need to be owned. So let's talk about owning you.