For Sale

I’m hypersexual. I feel like this is something I should be ashamed to admit on the internet, but I am not. My body was broken into as a child and my relationship with sex has always been complicated as a result. I abstained from sex completely for most of my life and have spent the last few years being ravaged by my desires. 

I often have sex I don't enjoy. I believe the term for this behavior is "compulsive". 20th Century Women is a favorite film of mine and there is one scene from it that I can never seem to forget. The main character is a young boy named Jamie; Julie is his love interest. Julie is considered a whore by most. I believe she was simply a young and adventurous woman, but my opinion on the matter is irrelevant. Julie was in tune with her sexuality, let's leave it at that. Anyway, one sunlight-soaked day, Julie confesses to Jamie that half the times she has sex, she regrets it. He asks what compels her to keep having sex and she replies, "Because I don't regret it half of the time". 

My obsession with sex lies in the uncertainty it comes with. Sometimes, I have sex and feel like the most powerful woman in the world. Other times, it makes me feel like an abandoned house: alluring but incapable of keeping constant company. 

Most of the time, I don't know how it is going to make me feel until after. And that is the thrill. Will I feel like the human embodiment of the divinity or will I feel like a dish left in the sink? God only knows, but it is a gamble I am willing to take every time. 

There is a man in my life; I would call him a friend. But we share ourselves in ways that go beyond friendship. We share our bodies and our breaths and our little deaths. I become hyper aware of the power in my sexuality when I am around him. The way he eyes me, even when I am clothed and mundane, makes me feel larger than life. I have what he wants. And usually, I let him have it. Other times, I wear invisible armor that makes me impenetrable. There are moments that I give myself to him, but in the end, I am always mine. 

One drunken night, we lay in my bed in a comfortable silence. Suddenly, he grabbed me, rolling me so that I would face him, and said, "I want you right now". I could feel the sunshine spilling out of me. He wants me. And I am the only one who can give him that. The realization at this fact makes me feel shiny. I have something he will only ever get pieces of. 

I know what you're thinking. This bitch really gets off on male validation, huh? The answer: Yes. Does that make me a villain? That I want to be wanted? To be held dear? It certainly doesn't feel like I am a villain. I'd have to have real power for that. My "power" lies in between my legs. My "power" is momentary and constantly fading. 

In his iconic commencement speech, "This is Water", David Foster Wallace says, "Worship your body and beauty and sexual allure and you will always feel ugly. And when time and age start showing, you will die a million deaths before they finally grieve you." My life feels like a testament to this. 

There is pleasure and a certain hell in being aware of your own sexual allure. As a woman, it is nice to know you have some sort of power in this world. However, this power puts you up for sale. We claim this hell in the name of love but in the end, “love” leaves us bought and sold and bought and sold.

My commodication has damned me to live in the shadows of what could be. I could be a best-selling novelist. I could be an aerospace engineer. I could be the president. But instead– I am for sale.