As serendipitous as unleashing my slutty powers of sluthood was, such a momentous step was not without a dark side. While I no longer seemed to care as much about other’s opinions of me, the emotional and spiritual carnage of my formative years not only still remained, but it was exponentially bolstered by taking those steps. My duality, a Jungian archetype, possessed me and shredded my soul.

Acting like a dirty slut was tantamount to an unconditional surrender to sluttiness. By getting off on others desiring me, I cemented my place on the rolls of Sluts Anonymous. An internal war raged in my heart, body, and mind.

Was I a slut because I’m a horny nympho, or because the peerage of my formative years typecast me into that role with their hatred and emotionally-destructive treatment? Was I unintentionally groomed into becoming a slut because my parents are pagan hippies who openly swing, never hiding their porn-worthy lifestyle from me? Was my faith, a nature-loving, everything-is-sacred, fuck your fucking brains out, so long as it harms none, and you take personal responsibility for your actions, spirituality the cause of me wanting to have as many orgasms as was possible?

While not a conscious bit of self-torture, those thoughts haunted my psyche. I loved the feeling of raw, sexual power, but all it did was prove everyone else in my life correct. All the shameful, malicious, and cruel abuse, now, somehow, seemed justified; I was, indeed, the worthless whore I’d been labeled as being. Did I blame myself, as any self-responsible person should? No, I didn’t; I was still too young and entirely too self-absorbed to do naught but point the finger outwards. My sluttiness wasn’t my fault.

I’m not saying that my terrible youth was so bad; so many others had things a thousand times worse than me, but, we all have our crosses to bear—a pentagram to bear on my part. If you can imagine every single day of your life being overfilled with bullying, being insulted and ridiculed, and treated like a worthless, stupid piece of slut-trash, that was nearly my entire existence. I had a phase where I considered suicide; luckily, I’m far too narcissistic for that. Food, something we never had in abundance, growing up impoverished, became my comfort; I ate my feelings.

My home life, with my family and “adopted” family, the members of my parents’ coven and their offspring, was fine. I was more than very lucky on that front. The issue was that my parents were also shunned and ostracized by the community. The maltreatment I received daily wasn’t because there was something amiss with me; it was because of who my parents were. The burning resentment that it fostered had eaten away at my core, unbeknownst to me.

While I couldn’t comprehend my folly at the time, those moments of self-doubt were the final nails in my emotional coffin. Rather than accept myself, I sought to change things, eschewing my roots and past, and ignoring the things that made me myself. Over time, this drove a self-inserted wedge between my parents and me, but, at that moment, I didn’t care. Having crossed the line from accused slut to being a horny, greedy slut that gets off on the sexual attention made me loathe myself as much as the pitchfork-wielding townsfolk of my youth hated me.

While I ignored it, my psyche slowly frayed. The carnage wasn’t evident until decades later, but my rock-bottom self-esteem was doing a hit job on my self-image. On the one hand, I’d discovered the joys of sex and the power of owning a pussy. On the other, it vindicated the myriads of low opinions others had about me. If I were worthless because I simply existed, then the fact that I acknowledged being a trashy slut vindicated all the abuse.

The result was spite, hate, and loathing directed toward myself. Never mind that I had a brain and knew how to use it. Forget the fact that I have a big, empathetic heart. I was a slut, a tramp, a cheap whore. I only wanted to be accepted and to find happiness, so realizing that I’d become the very thing I’d been accused of being all my life began to erode my emotional health.

Another pratfall along the road to goddess-like slutdom came in the form of young men. Part of the power of being a slut is that everyone wants to have sex with you. I heartily love sex and approach it with all the knowledge, dedication, and exuberance of a true fanatic. Even back then, when I was just beginning my journey of self, this universal truth was indelibly tattooed in my mind. It was obvious.

I considered myself bi-curious at the time. I enjoyed having sex with other women, and my first-ever lover was a woman, my best and only friend, Jen. However, I wanted to appear to be normal. So, rather than a pussy-eating-slut, I adopted the imagery of a cock-crazed-slut. Now, I freely admit that I’m sexually attracted to both men and women.

I’d just broken up with Brent a few days prior, if one calls having, “You fucking, worthless, whoring slut, get the fuck out of my sight,” screamed at you as breaking up. It seems that when a man tells you, in the heat of passionate sex, that he’d get off, hard, if you sucked his roommate’s cock, he doesn’t actually mean it. It was a good thing that he didn’t find out that I also fucked Tommy—twice. One could only imagine what he would have called me if he’d had known that, on the previous night, I let Tommy fuck me from behind, bent over the couch, while my inebriated, soon-to-be-ex-boyfriend snored away on the cushions.

The Autumn day was both warm and beautiful. I’d spent the night at some friends’ apartment, hating my tiny, shitty, rundown dorm room. We’d hung out for most of the day, and I was walking across campus, debating whether to go back to my room or find something fun to read in the library. That’s when the darker side of being a slut, re-reared its ugly head. My wardrobe choice of shorts and a tank top didn’t seem too overt or sexualized, but, I have this horny and wild slut look about me. My ass cheeks weren’t even showing, and I’d even put on a bra. Nonetheless, a new breed of young man saw a slut and made his play.

“Wow,” the young, smiling man said to me. “You look amazing, except for your shoes. They don’t go well with your clothes or hair.”

I was used to being cat-called, and, sometimes, a drunken frat boy would proposition me in a bar or as he stumbled homeward. However, a clean, sober man approaching me with a smile on his face was a new experience. He was cute but rather nondescript. Young, budding muscles were evident on his body, his hair and eyes were light brown, and he was dressed in the latest style. A black, fiber necklace, woven into a single strand with little metal pieces and shells, hung from his broad neck. I smelled a sort of cologne that simultaneously held allure and eye-stinging pungency.

“My shoes?” Membership in the Sluts-only club automatically gives you an accurate bullshit, pickup line detector. Mine was going off with all the subtlety of an air-raid siren.

His name was Jason, and he was the first pickup artist that I’d encountered in my life. In what became a life pattern, I knew better but chose worse. He wasn’t interested in me or my mind, and Jason had no plans of building a relationship with me. He saw an attractive redhead with a sexy ass and nice tits and decided to try and seduce her.

“Yes,” he said. “If you’d go with sandals or low heels, they’d show off your legs better.”

Right then, I knew that I was being subjected to verbal excrement. I’m very youthful-looking for my age; back then, I probably looked like a child. I have a few somewhat decent physical features, but my legs are not one of those. My body is lean and lithe, except for my rounded hips and perfectly rounded ass. My legs follow suit and look like a scrawny chicken’s. If I pack on far too many pounds, they swell out a little, but, otherwise, I look like a stick figure that somebody pasted some secondary sexual organs onto. Jason giving my legs a backhanded compliment was a major warning sign that something was afoot.

“And, yet, you’re dressed like that!” I retorted.

“I’m dressed in the height of fashion.”

“Exactly, lemming.” I turned to go.

The lemming, Jason, was a student of the amoral discipline known as Pickup Artistry. The brown-haired conquistador was using his newly minted skills of mental and emotional manipulation to separate me from my panties. In that regard, I’d already won; I wasn’t wearing any.

What Jason was doing was known as “sarging.” Would-be seducers study the “fine art of picking up women” by practicing memorized routines, known as openers, to disarm women, so they can have sex with them. The unfortunate realities of these tactics never seem to cross the pickup artist’s mind.

For the uninitiated, pickup artists grew out of a bunch of guys studying and then emulating the moves and tactics of successful womanizers. However, the imitation, like all copies, is feeble, shallow, and ineffectual. The philosophy that women are objects, mere trophies, as well as shallow, spiteful, and selfish users of men permeates the mentality. Quite similar to true narcissists and psychopathy, the pickup “sargers” display that superficial charm, no depth, etcetera.

Their dehumanizing, forceful tactics are called “game.” They don’t meet women for a relationship, they game them to get laid. The general “game” is to say and do what they think the woman wants, disarm her defenses, and escalate until they score. Then, they leave her in the lurches, off to seek their next conquest. I have no qualms with somebody wanting to improve themselves or increase their success in the sexual realms, but the underlying misogyny is destructive, in my opinion.

“If you walk away, you’ll miss out on us,” he said to my back.

He thought, as I later discovered, that he’d triumphed over my “bitch shield.” News flash to all you pickup artists out there, it isn’t a bitch shield; it’s a creep shield. Jason’s only real victory was being in the right place at the right time. I found him mildly attractive and I was horny.

“Miss out on us, huh?” I laughingly said. “Tell you what, I’ll be at Pappa’s at nine. Buy me a drink and a sandwich or something, and you can tell me all about my lack of fashion sense.” I turned once more and marched away.

“What’s your name?”

“They call me HC.”

“HC?”

“Hippie Chick.”

“I’m Jason.”

“Way to command all those Argonauts.”

“What?”

“Never mind. Pappa’s at nine.”

My fraying mentality ruptured, bordering on schizophrenia. I was, at once, both proud and ashamed of my sexuality, and part of me split off to chastise myself, another fragmented piece of my mind defending myself. All while that inner voice lectured me about how “nice girls” don’t behave like that, I plotted my sexual escapades for the evening. Jason may not have known it, but he was going to get fucked that night.

Jason’s pickup lines and woman-hating, female-fearing tactics didn’t work on me. My hormones, jumping into overdrive, sealed his fate. If it hadn't been him, it would have been the next person to come along, because everyone wants to bed a slut. Sluts have more experience, aren’t afraid of what they want in bed, and we give as good as we get. Additionally, very few young, horny men have the backbone to turn down a horny whore.

Pappa’s was an on-campus, rowdy, bar. The establishment smelled like cheap, stale beer and vomit, but drinks were cheap, and the food was scrumptious. It was a frat-boy meat market, but it was also always a guaranteed fun night. The place was always packed far beyond capacity, and I enjoyed being an anonymous person awash in the sea of drunken, obnoxious bodies.

I dressed in a flirty, but not too slutty, forest green dress, and I wore low heels just to mess with Jason. I told my inner voice of reason to go fuck itself. I knew Jason wasn’t going to be anything more than a hard cock for me to enjoy, but I convinced myself that I didn’t care. Sluts fuck, so there was no reason that I, a slut from birth, needed to make any excuses about wanting some sex. Just to toy with my beau du jour some more, I donned my otherwise secreted crystal necklace, which I still have to this day and proudly wear. It was a simple, black leather thong, and the crystal distended from it.

Panties or a bra were left behind, as I had no plans on staying dressed any longer than necessary. I’d only admitted my sluthood to myself a few, short weeks ago, and I was already embracing the slut-side. On the way there, I once more reveled in the lusty, horny attention. That time, instead of just counting, I reacted and countered.

“You wish you were man enough to find out,” I countered, smiling at one guy who asked if my carpet matched my fiery drapes.

“If your dick is as big as your ego, give me your number,” I retorted to the drunkard who alerted me that after one night with him, other guys wouldn’t measure up.

“You’re walking around dressed like that, and you have the nerve to call me a slut?” I ricocheted a sorority girl’s accusation right back at her.

I arrived early, but waited outside for at least fifteen minutes, turning down offers of free drinks and oral sex. One guy, a senior I’d seen around, actually asked me out for a wine tasting. I got his phone number, just for the free booze. At ten minutes after nine, I entered and didn’t see either an open seat or Jason.

As I tried to push my way through the crowd at the bar and get myself a drink, I saw Jason walk in. He was wearing the same clothing, and the stinky goodness of his liberal application of cologne almost visibly emanated off of him. I have been called many things, but shy and reserved has never been one of them.

“Jason! Over here!”

He smiled at me, the first genuine part of his personality that I saw, and strolled up with an obviously-practiced swagger. Yes, “sarging” also includes lessons on how to dress, how to walk, and other silly things. I later learned that he was doing his “Alpha Male” impersonation.

“I knew you’d come,” he told me. His tone was polished and practiced, but even I could detect his true lack of confidence and nervousness. “Because chicks like you dig us alpha males.”

I laughed so hard that I sputtered into my drink. Even back then, I read voraciously. My mother kept me supplied with an endless stream of romance novels after she’d read them. Almost every night, there would be a new novel on my bed, with the top corners of the pages that marked the hottest sex scenes conveniently folded down, in case I wanted to “flick the bean.” Aside from that very focused reading, which was very influential in forming my ideas of what constitutes my perfect relationship—you don’t need to point out how twisted that is, I’m fully aware of my insanity—I also read anything I could get my hand on.

I knew exactly what image a guy calling himself an Alpha was supposed to conjure. I was also keenly aware that the scientist, David Mech, originally coined the phrase while studying wolf packs in captivity and later tried to have his book removed from both circulation and publication because he’d drawn false conclusions. Nonetheless, men who think they’re dominant and assertive call themselves “Alpha Males;” the lingo stuck. The pickup artists adopted the false jargon as part of their cult, but, it seems that they confused being a true, masculine leader with being a forceful bull and being domineering instead of dominant. Yes, there is a huge difference.

“If you were an Alpha male, you wouldn’t feel compelled to announce it,” I chortled. Jason looked deflated. “See?” I asked, trying to recover from my faux pas, “I wore low heels just for you.”

I felt my slutty powers of slutdom coursing through me once more. My toy for the night was here in the hopes of seducing me, and I, while fully aware that he was practicing his techniques on me, needed a hard cock. Mutual desire and compatible body parts equal a fun night and another leg of my journey into being a Slutty Goddess.

“Um, well,” he stammered, actually looking cute, cute enough for my pussy to gush, “I was just saying…”

“Saying that you needed to know what to order for me? Oh look, a booth opened up! Order me some wine, two beers, fries, and a double cheeseburger. I’ll grab our booth.”

I watched, intently. On his own, Jason’s self-assured swagger devolved into mousy uncertainty. He had difficulty getting noticed and the larger jock types, on athletic scholarships, jostled him out of their way as if he were nothing.

“Hey you,” I said to a passing guy as I got up from my seat. “Would you watch my booth to make sure nobody takes it until I order some food, please?”

“What’s in it for me, sexy red?”

He wanted me, that much was obvious. “Look,” I said to him. I couldn’t meet his eyes because they were on my lovely, medium-sized breasts and pert nipples. “I’m here with a guy, so you’ll have to slip me your phone number, secretly. But, if you hold my booth, I’ll let you grab my ass.”

He smiled and reached for my butt.

“Not so fast! Hold the booth, then you can touch me.”

The revelation was an epiphany of epic proportions. A million and six little images of me paraded through my mind, each one sticking out their tongue and holding a sign that read, “Your mother was right, slut.” She told me that horny people, especially men, will say or do almost anything to fuck you. She was, as the rest of my life proved that she always was, correct.

I marched up to the bar, smiling at the football jocks and inclining my head at an angle. Just as Helen of Troy’s beauty launched a thousand ships, mine parted the sea of college partiers to either side of me, so I could easily sidle up to the bar.

“Two beers, one cup of red wine, another of white, a double-cheeseburger, loaded, no pickles, and fries, plus whatever he wants,” I pointed to Jason, “and he’s paying.”

“You got it, hot stuff.”

Jason stared at me in disbelief; two-thirds of the football team stared at my butt with open desire.

“I told you to write down your phone number,” I said to my knight holding his vigil over my booth. I interposed the young man between the crowd of drunken rowdies and me, and turned around, presenting my butt.

He reached out and tentatively placed his hand on my behind. My love of the thrill of exhibitionism had already become a major, acknowledged kink, and this added even more heat to those feelings. I wasn’t just displaying my body; I was being groped, in public, by a stranger while not wearing anything other than a thin dress. I almost had a spontaneous orgasm.

“Under the dress,” I purred to him, trying to keep myself from moaning in horny passion.

To my surprise, he was actually bold enough to accept my invitation, and his hot, manly hand crept under my skirt, and somewhat roughly grabbed my ass. Overcome with a taboo, naughty feeling, I pushed my butt against his hand. Good girls don’t allow themselves to be touched like that in public by a stranger or invite a stranger to do that. It was, at that time, the sluttiest thing I’d ever done in my life; of course, the night was far from over.

“Holy shit,” he moaned when he discovered that I wasn’t wearing panties. Of course, being a male who was just invited to fondly a sexy, young woman, he pushed his boundaries and his fingers went right to my already-wet slit. Being a slut, I let him push.

“Now run along,” I told him.

“You can’t just…”

“Yes. I can. Not tonight, maybe the next time I’m horny. I’m with somebody tonight.” While I did get his phone number, I never called him because I accidentally left it at Pappa’s when we left.

“Dudes,” I heard my booth-keeper shout to his friends. “Did you see what that slut just let me…” his voice faded into the crowd.

Jason returned, all confidence and machismo once more. “Miss me? I know you did?” Rather than sit across from me, he sat next to me. I later learned that this is part of the steps for pickup artists. Isolate your target—because women are not humans, they’re only targets—then escalate, moving toward sex, and then get her alone to bag the trophy. He had my dinner in his hands.

I ate, we conversed, and Jason used his fledgling pickup tactics to escalate our tension toward the goal of the bedroom. I never mentioned that was my destination, to begin with. About halfway through my French fries, he followed the mantra of the pickup community and made contact. According to their commandments, to get sex from a woman, they need to physically touch her as soon as possible. This builds trust and comfort and supposedly gets us weak-willed ladies primed for sexual contact. They think that some guy pawing at us turns us on!

As Jason said something that he thought was particularly witty, he raised his hand in a gesture, and, rather than put it back on the table, he let his arm drop, and placed it on my thigh, just above the knee. I was so fucking horny at that point, that all my cares about being a polite, respectable member of society fled from me; the succubus slut, a demoness, a sexy, nubile vampire-vixen that fed on the lust of others had been unleashed.

I shot handsy Jason a withering glance, and he immediately began withdrawing his offending hand. Then, I smiled at him, as lustily as my teenage self could muster, softly took his retreating into mine, and positioned it under my dress, near the top of my thigh. The sexual attention I’d been receiving, the only attention it seemed I’d ever get in life, had me ready for sex. My pussy was dripping, my flesh was on fire, and my nipples were so hard that they hurt.

“You were telling me about how rich and famous you’re going to be,” I said, completely ignoring the under-table action.

I finished my food, chugged both wines and then went to work on the beer. One might say that beer is an acquired taste, but, for me, regular, American brews are an acquired tolerance. But it was college, and beer is the fifth food group on campuses the world over, so I drank the piss-colored, room-temperature vileness down.

“Okay, I’m ready. Let’s go.”

“Really? You want to leave here?”

“Yes.” I grabbed his hand with force and ran it up my inner thigh, releasing my grip when his fingertips grazed my neatly trimmed pubes. “You’re obviously trying to fuck me, and I’m horny. Let’s go.”

“Are you wearing any panties?”

“No,” I giggled. “I thought you’d like that.”

Jason grabbed me as if I were the only woman on the planet, telling me how hot I was. He pulled me out of the booth and practically ran outside with me in tow. Less than a block later, I spied a vacant alley and pushed him into the darkness. Out of sight, a dumpster blocking any view from the street, I pushed him against the barren bricks and kissed him while I stroked his cock. We made out, his cock hardening under my touch, while he fumbled around between my legs, trying to finger-fuck me. Despite not ever touching his shaft except through his pants, Jason began breathing heavily in record time. I had to stop the foreplay and lead him to my little nook of a dorm room to keep him from ejaculating in his pants.

At my place, I wasted no time. My budding sluttiness had blossomed into a magnificent, slutty bloom. I wanted to be fucked. I didn’t crave gentle, slow love-making, and just having sex wouldn’t do. I’d flashed a stranger, been fingered by another one, and my “date” fingered me in public. The implications of how wild I was acting had crept up on me and turned up the heat to volcanic levels.

As soon as the door had closed, I dropped to my knees, undoing his pants. Under his newest-thing-in-fashion, pleated pants, he wore regular, white underwear. I tugged them down and sucked his manhood into my mouth. I moaned on his shaft as I felt it grow and thicken between my lips.

Feeling slutty, I reached under my green dress and played in my wetness. I'd’ always been embarrassed over how wet I got. My first male lover commented, snidely, on the matter. A few of the other guys I’d slept with also made me feel inadequate and small over my cunt’s copious production of lubricant. I didn’t care, then. I wasn’t trying to impress Jason; I was trying to get some cock inside of me.

Regretfully, Jason had an orgasm less than a minute after I started sucking his cock. He was embarrassed and mortified for having cum so quickly. I eased his shame, telling him that it was just because I was so sexy, he couldn’t control it. He agreed and then stroked his flaccid shaft while attempting to make me cum by eating my pussy.

I’m amply blessed in the orgasm department. I can cum from clitoral stimulation, as well as vaginally and anally. Once I have my first orgasm, I’m not satisfied. It takes several orgasms before I even feel remotely satisfied. Additionally, after my first agonizing, thunderous bliss consumes me, the next one, and the ones following those come quickly and hard. Even the Goddess, herself, knew that I was going to be a complete and major slut. She designed me to look the part and to feel it so intensely that sex is a constant craving.

Jason was not orally talented. I got off a couple of times, which made him feel like a big Alpha male stud. Unfortunately, I had to concentrate on it in order to reach an orgasm.

But, he finally got it up again, and his hard cock was the medicine my slutty-doctor alter-ego had prescribed. It wasn’t mind-blowing sex; in fact, it was missionary-style grunting and thrusting. Make no mistake, it felt good; his sexual prowess, however, left me less than satisfied.

I made the mistake of saying, “Fuck me with your big, hard cock.” I hadn’t even finished the sentence before he, again, blew his wad.

Ten minutes later, he was out the door, saying that he’d drop by or call me. I knew he wouldn’t.

Since I was nude and still horny, I fingered my cunt, giving myself the sexual workout I needed. Then, an idea struck me.

“Hi, Tommy,” I said when he answered my call. “What are you up to?”

“Krystal? Why are you calling me?”

“I’m in my dorm, all alone and horny. I was hoping that you might want to drop by and have sex with me.”

“Wait! This is a booty call? I’ll be right over, so long as you don’t tell Brent.”

“Brent doesn’t want me, so no problem there. I, however, want you, right now. I’m nude in bed and my fingers are in my pussy. The door’s unlocked.”

Tommy treated me like a friend. He didn’t try to manipulate me into sleeping with him, nor did he use insincere, polished routines to lower my defenses. I greeted him with open arms and open legs, and we got stoned, laughed, and fucked several times that night.

I’d learned that being a slut has several advantages in life, but it also puts a target on one’s head for anybody that needs to feel good about themselves. I’d also realized that I don’t need a man in my life to get cock. A part of me still felt compelled to be partnered, because that’s what happened in all the romance novels that were my main sustenance, but I couldn’t make my perfect mate magically materialize before my eyes. So, sex it would be until I found somebody who felt I was worthy of them.

Less than a week later, I ran into Jason once more. He was sitting at a curbside table in front of a little restaurant, bragging to his friends about how he “sarged a hot body nine into sex with his game.” I’d heard enough of his heavily-modified story to know that it was me he was talking about.

“Actually,” I interrupted, taking some sadistic pleasure in watching Jason squirm as I placed my hands on the table and leaned into his troop of pickup artists. “I planned on fucking you, Jason. Did you tell them that I made all the moves?”

His friends just stared.

“I had to put his hand on my pussy and drag him to my place before he got the hint. I spent all night ignoring your stupid, worthless pickup lines, and, then, you came in my mouth in what, twenty seconds? Talk about a minute man!”

His buddies laughed.

“Once I finally got you inside of me, it was over before I even felt anything. I had to call somebody else to get some good fucking.”

“Fuck you, slut,” he shot back.

“Not today,” I smiled at him, not letting the painful word affect me. “But,” I turned to one of his friends, “I’m fucking horny. Are you good in bed?”

After I led my new beau away from his posse, I soon learned that Jason’s friend was, indeed, very good in bed.

To Be Continued…