Foreword

I have decided to do a series of short posts on my journey from being a normal kid to the kind of man you girls sit here rubbing your cunts to.

Why? In part because it is an interesting reflective exercise. In part because I wanted to give you a glimpse into how the men who made you what you are were created. And, in part, because I want you to keep getting off to how fucked up it all is, so that I can keep getting off to your trauma.

So lie back, spread those legs, and get ready. Let’s start.

”I want to be good at it.”

We’re all products of our experiences. Who knows that better than you, reading this?

I’m no exception. Affection was not a behaviour I often had modelled for me as a child. My parents loved me, don’t misunderstand. But they didn’t love each other. Their relationship was a constant power struggle. When you grow up in an unsafe house, there are things you need to learn. You need to learn to read people. To be attuned to their emotions. To understand what makes them tick, what sets them off. And you need to learn to calculate, to manipulate, to say the right thing to defuse the danger and create the right response. I will say more about this and how I learned to adapt it in a future post. But for now, just know I started scared and alone. Perhaps you did too?

Almost as soon as I was old enough to understand what sex was it felt like it was also about power. It started in films. Have you noticed that in films, women almost never have sex? You aren’t equal participants. You’re a prize. An object. Men are insatiable - they need you, and they take you. They do things to you, and you endure them. That’s just the way things are. And how could it be otherwise? Look how soft and delicate you are. How fragile. How inviting and beautiful. How defenceless. Could you really blame men for needing you and doing what they need to have you?

And yet somehow, the women seemed almost confused. Pained, struggling, but… enjoying it? I knew that when the time came for me to do this to a woman (of course, it seemed obvious I would one day) that I should do it well. Like in the films. She should enjoy it. That’s how I first started fantasising about the things I’d do to my own special girl own day.

It’s funny how things change.

It’s better when they cry

I eventually moved on from films and found out about the world of porn. And this is where the spiral really began.

I had always viewed sex as the strong preying on and taking the weak. But now I could see it unfiltered; not glamorised or romanticised for the big screen. And the real thing was both so much better and so much worse. Women really were helpless. But the reality was unceremonious and cruel; there was so much less of the mystery and intrigue and tension that films would have you believe. It was violent. It was raw. It was brutal. It was perfect. At the same time that a monster in me opened its eyes for the first time and drew its first breath, I was also wracked by guilt. How could this be making my cock hard? Why do I cum so much harder when they cry? But it was, and I did, and there was no turning it off. I couldn’t stop wanting more.

That exploration definitely awakened something in me. It was not a quiet whisper in my ear, tempting me. It was like the roar of a freight train. Seeing a girl’s legs held apart. Seeing her struggle. Seeing her fight. Seeing her tremble. Seeing her cry. Those sweet defeated whimpers. I delighted in the fact that it was all futile; that she could never stop it. This is how things were. This is what she was made for. I could feel the need for it aching in every muscle and bone in my body. I had to do this.

Wait a minute. Didn’t I used to want her to like it? I guess we all grow up sooner or later.

Enter Emily

It just so happened that exactly around this time, girls were starting to become interested in me. So began the transition from fantasy to reality.

Emily. Emily was my first. And she was gorgeous. Thin, with pretty brown eyes and a smile that said she was a lot more wholesome than I was. Long straight black hair, and… she always did wear short skirts. I could never help myself, admiring her legs and ass and wondering what it would feel like to finally pull up that tiny bit of fabric keeping me from what I wanted.

I wouldn’t have to wait too long. It was better than I dreamed. Emily was my first and, if you like, I’ll tell you all about what I did to her, and what that did to me.