I skip my classes without guilt. I’ve done it too many times to count, and every time it’s for the same reason. When he calls me his hot teen slut, my body reacts before my brain does, and I’m already grabbing my bag, already heading out the door.
Sex with them isn’t just something I do. It’s what I think about. It’s what I crave when I wake up and what keeps me restless at night. Older men know exactly how to look at me, how to talk to me, how to make me feel wanted and ruined at the same time. I’m addicted to the way they take control, the way they expect me to give in.
The apartment smells like cologne and heat when I arrive. I don’t need instructions anymore. They barely have to touch me before I’m melting, already desperate, already ready to be used again. I love how predictable I am for them. I love knowing they can see it on my face how badly I need it.
“You couldn’t stay away,” one of them says, amused.
“No,” I admit. “I never can.”
They take their time with me because they know I’ll stay. They know I’ll keep coming back. I crave the way they push me, tease me, wear me down until I’m aching and shaky, until my thoughts disappear and all I want is more of them. More attention. More hands. More heat.
I lose track of time every visit. Hours blur together because sex with them feels like slipping into something familiar and dangerous. I don’t pretend it’s healthy. I don’t pretend I want to stop. I love how empty and full it makes me feel at the same time.
When it’s over, I’m exhausted, satisfied, and already thinking about the next time. I fix my clothes, check my phone, and know I’ll skip again if they call.
I always do.
Because wanting them feels better than being responsible ever did.
