Being a debaucherous slut is hard.

For instance, I am convinced/terrified that my roommates secretly hate me (though they’ve not brought anything up). Surely this bringing home two different boys on two consecutive school nights is not winning me any points in the pure and quiet and studious scholarly roommate department. And I’d imagine that the sort of noise that’d carries through our thin walls/doors, like the sound of a metal ruler or a sadistic hand smacking hard against skin is not exactly the most reassuring.

Then there is the fact that I’ve hardly gotten any sleep—staying up late and getting up an hour earlier to clean up traces of the night’s dirty deeds is kind of delightful to keep in mind as I stuff ancient morally righteous texts into my schoolbag, but staying conscious in droning lectures becomes that much more unlikely. (This is problem because this slut is also a studious one.)

And the bruises everywhere—sometimes a surprised glimpse when I change in front of the mirror, plum and rose stains from fingers clutching into breasts, snappy red bite marks on exposed thighs, bare stomachs, red ass cheeks…well, given my adoration of reminder marks, perhaps it is not such a bad thing. Though it has become harder to remember/distinguish which ones Bad Idea left and which were the punishments of the Teacher.

The worst of it is, I think, as always, that I still, still, like Bad Idea much more than I should. And his careless affections, painful teasing, ironic compliments, unintended sweetness…his company that inspires anticipation like nothing else, our conversations woven with the too obvious satire of our actually quite wretched affairs—or just mine, I guess.

So much so that when I see the Teacher the night after, half of my thoughts are detached from the cock shoved down my throat and even more so when we are not fucking, and talking, and reading his writing and my cursed mind and hopeless sentimental heart that just can’t connect to the girls he’s fucking/dating and him and me in any way. So that I feel completely interchangeable. And maybe I am.

But to make up for it I have memories painted in raw flesh tones and pure indulgence, of feeling and acting like a perfect dirty slut with two different cute boys on two different nights.

Like Bad Idea’s threats and promises (I’m going to fuck your throat tonight. Think that hurts? It’s going to hurt so much more when that cock is in your ass.) Of dressing him up in my apricot American Apparel deep vneck and a poofy white tutu-like skirt, straddling him to paint on a coat of purple mascara (he looked cute dressed like a girl). Even better when, in those clothes, his expression changed to that of the sadistic dom he does so so wonderfully, tying my wrists to my ankles with a pair of my thick winter tights, choking a patent leather belt around my neck and gripping the free end to position me as he willed. A delicate, precious boy in girl’s clothes fucking me and the pure delight in his eyes when he slapped me, so hard that my cheekbones stung after. Or beating me with his ruler with a ball gag in my mouth, my teeth still straining to bite into the edge of a pillow as to not cry out at the red welts forming on my ass.

Or the Teacher and his fondness of me dressing up, so putting on a too small, too short, nearly school girl dress with a row of buttons up the front. His instructions to unbutton from the top while I did the bottom, and sitting at the edge of the bed with the dress peeled open (but on), spreading my legs and meeting his eye while he told me the next step (stick your fingers down your panties) and the ones after that. Eventually ending up  with me on my knees on the cold marble floor, in front of the mirror while he fucked me from behind, jerking my hair up so we could watch the direct projection of our debauchery. The relentless nature of his tongue flicking and sucking at my clit, and after hours of so much rough sex I could hardly stand another shove of his hips (and yet, still so desperately craved it). The eventual reward of his cum splattering not just across my face but even dripping down my shoulder, a translucent painted line down my back.

Oh, alright, I suppose sexual indulgence has its upsides. Still, on nights when I can only listen to sentimental music and the thoughts running through my head are not just about potential threesomes but potential threesomes where I end up with my head nestled against the chest of the boy I like and the dirty memories on our tongues, I can’t help but wish for…well, a Better Idea.