Knowing why something is never changes the fact that it is, and, when cause and effect become intertwined, the topic or question becomes convoluted and mind-boggling. For instance, if one knows why Johnny Quarterback is an arrogant, self-entitled douche, it doesn’t change the fact that he truly is a feminine hygiene product that one might use on a Midsummer’s Eve. Causality just adds self-spiraling repetition.

One can, by that line of thought, easily unravel millennia of philosophy. Why are we here? It doesn’t matter why we’re here; the fact that we are is what matters. Then, if we’re here, ought we do what we ought to do? Yes, because we’re here. But, why are we here?

As I began embracing my slutty compulsions, such thoughts plagued me. Did it matter why I was that way? What caused it, and does that matter? Woven throughout all this rumination was my heart’s desire, a love that completely consumed me. I wondered if true love eluded me because I was a slut, or if I was a slut because true love seemed to be an unrealistic fantasy. Whether my sluttiness was because of the treatment I received at the hands of my youthful tormentors, or in spite of it, went round and round in my mind, effect creating cause and vice versa.

Ultimately, none of that mattered. I found solace in convincing myself that slut-shaming was akin to the ignorant, fearful peasants brandishing torches. Being a pagan, that should have been double-jeopardy, but I found comfort in feeling above all the vileness. I was a slut, self-diagnosed, and my body and mind loved it. The loneliness and harrowing despair were things I could easily do without, but they could be managed, or at least concealed.

Slowly, I grew comfortable with everyone thinking that I was the sluttiest slut in all of slutdom. When I was in public, women would stare at me with hate and malice, and men would openly lust over my body. I never liked being treated like I was a trashy piece of fuck-meat to be used and tossed away—subhuman—but I did enjoy the power it gave me. I also learned to camouflage my intelligence; if I wanted to indulge my slutty needs, I needed to be cautious about revealing how smart I was. Smart, sexy, slutty women intimidate most men; they prefer vapid bimbos.

Like seducing others, revealing my intelligence became a game, fully integrated into my lusty habits. I’d pretend to have rocks in my head, but let a classical literature or scientific fact filter through. If they caught it and played along, my IQ suddenly, magically increased. Like most things in life, it wasn’t fair, but knowing that doesn’t change reality. This testing of the waters became my modus operandi for nearly everything in my life, including my slutty seductions—slutus operandi.

Having come to grips with the fact that I turned out exactly as the pitchfork-wielding villagers prophesied, I fell into my typical, youthful routines. Because of who I was and who my parents were, the benefit of the doubt, let alone a fair chance, was never extended to me. I had to do twice as much, three times better, and four times faster than anybody else just to get a nod of acknowledgment. That not only resulted in me having an incredibly strong work ethic, but it also gave me an insatiable hunger for anything that I enjoyed or was interested in. My slutty powers of seduction were honed with a similar intensity and all-consuming zeal. I hurled myself into my role with reckless abandon.

My only problem on the sexual side was that I was young, and, while I wasn’t inexperienced with sex, I really didn’t know what I was into. I knew that I loved to have orgasms, not there’s a single soul on the planet that doesn’t, but that was about it. By every gauge, measurement, and opinion, I was a trashy, nympho slut. It was a surreal revelation to realize that other than sex, sometimes with women, I hadn’t done much. Comparing my endeavors to the sex my peers in high school claimed to have been having, I was far beneath the average sexual activity of a local sixteen-year-old.

I couldn’t do anything about my aching heart or misery, but I could figure out what I enjoyed. I attacked that mystery with all the dedication and vigor that I applied to everything else in my life. Not knowing where to start or whom to begin with, I began with the one thing that gave me sexual thrills above and beyond anything else I’d ever done, up to that point.

Taking stock of what I knew I loved, it was a tiny list. I enjoyed masturbating several times each day, always beginning my morning with a few orgasms before I even pulled the covers off of me. The fact that I could cum quickly, easily, and repeatedly was a great bonus. I loved the hardness of man, not just his cock, but all of him. The softness of a woman and the magnificent way that she can get me off was like ambrosia for me, a perfect treat that one enjoys to the fullest but cannot partake of often.

I also enjoyed getting my lovers so worked up that they sexually attacked me. Men were more easily frenzied than women. All I needed to do to get a man to treat me like his personal fuck toy was to dress like a slut, talk like a horny, stupid slut, and let him know that everything I said or did was just to get him to fuck me. Women usually, but not always, needed to feel that emotional connection and mental stimulation.

What really turned me on, though, was being an exhibitionist slut. From introspection, I knew why showing off my nude body to complete strangers turned me on so much, but knowing the reasons had no bearing on the fact that it aroused me so much. There’s a truism that women are always completely aware of what they’re showing. The first time I flashed somebody was purely accidental, but the several hundred times since that moment were fully intentional, albeit unplanned.

Every time I showed off to somebody, my body overheated, my pussy gushed, and I’d grow so incredibly horny that the rest of the day and all the following night was spent with my fingers buried in my pussy. I had mentally linked my need for attention and validation to showing my body; it was as simple as that. Additionally, flashing random people was considered taboo, and the forbidden held extra appeal to me. That was where I began; my exhibitionist streak would be my starting ground. From there, I assumed that it would be easy to find willing people who wanted to help me explore my sexuality.

Finding clothing suited for wardrobe malfunctions was an easy task. I needed to look no further than my closet. Despite not making much money and never holding down a job, not needing to pay a mortgage or rent was quite an advantage. The house was very new, so it had top-of-the-line heating and air conditioning, as well as newer, efficient appliances. My financial needs were few, so I used what little money I earned to fulfill a childhood dream, new clothes. My need to be noticed and appreciated echoed in my clothing. Slutty, witchy, Bohemian, and barely-there garments dominated my choices.

My return to campus was without fanfare, but it became my new hunting ground for many reasons. Mainly, since I could only find part-time work—usually requiring a hair net and inquiring if they wanted French fries with that—I picked up a few classes to increase my knowledge. This time around, I signed up for classes that interested me. Additionally, people my age were there, a new supply of willing, young men arriving every few months. I’d learned through error and error, rather than trial and error, to not invite my playmates to my home.

As I was, at best, uncertain about my pagan upbringing, I studied theology. I felt that perhaps there were some cosmic answers out there that would lead me to inner peace. That never came about, but I did find a lovely, little bar that was patronized almost exclusively by grad students and the faculty. Far less rowdy than the meat-market and beer-fest of Pappa’s.

Der Garten was a quiet, tranquil place, filled with a motley crew of collegiate fringe types. Dark beer in pilsner glasses instead of cheap, salty, weak lager in a plastic bucket showed the contrast in attitude. The customers played darts and held quiet, intellectual discussions rather than attempting to fuck anything in a skirt and screaming about how manly they were. It was both safe and perfect.

There is, however, quite a disparity between going with the horny flow and planning it. Being horny, seeing an appreciative person gawking at you, and “accidentally” spreading your legs too far, ensuring that they catch a glimpse, a look, or, sometimes, a long, lingering stare of your red pubes and soaking-wet pussy was naughty, taboo, dirty, and so fucking hot. Planning it was nerve-racking.

My class was on Thursday and Friday evenings, and I had the entire week to think about what I was planning on doing. Nearly every waking moment was spent thinking about what I’d wear, how I’d act, or fantasizing about what would happen. That entire week was one, extended masturbation session. My self-absorbed feedback loop had been switched on and dialed up to full blast.

Although it was new territory for me, I discovered that I am a self-arousing sort of slut. Thinking about flashing random strangers got me so worked up that passion consumed me. Every time the thought of what I wanted to do crossed my mind, I had to immediately stop whatever I was doing and finger my pussy. When I went about planning what to wear, which involved trying on different outfits and combinations, I just had to experiment in the mirror to determine how well the garments would facilitate exposing my sensual charms. That always led to me gazing at myself in the mirror, fingering my needy clit.

In bed every night and each morning, the idea of exposing my dripping cunt and ass to somebody, then grabbing them and fucking them, was my last and first thought, always accompanied by multiple orgasms. It wasn’t just the act of sex and my incessant need for it that made me a slut. Thinking about doing something naughty made me drip; planning sexual activity made me so hot that my cunt spewed out hot, sexual lava like a volcano. I even got fired from my burger-flipping job on the Wednesday before I went to class; I’d been very late every day that week because I sat in my car for almost an hour, masturbating to multiple orgasms.

My wardrobe choices were barely socially acceptable, and I straddled the line between plausible deniability and being a wanton whore. A wispy, emerald green, wrap-around skirt that didn’t reach halfway down to my knees went quite well with my thin, heather brown textured, tight top. It was a scoop neck T-shirt, cut to enhance my curves and highlight the shape of my tits. Because the fabric was so light and thin, my breasts could be seen in shadows and highlights, and my nipples were more than obvious.

In class, while I studied the common, core beliefs that permeated several faiths, young, male theologians studied my slutty body, drooled over my almost-see-through top, and their cocks grew hard while they fantasized about fucking me. While I pretended to not notice, all the hungry eyes devouring my flesh had me in a sexual stupor. My nipples grew so hard, sticking out long and proud, and my pussy was so wet that I had a dark spot on the back of my skirt, after class.

As soon as class ended, I ran to the restroom, closed the stall door, and fingered myself to orgasm. My lust was so overpowering that I slammed my back against the stall wall, hiking up one foot, so I could access my pussy. My thighs were slick and shiny with horny dew, and my fingers easily slid deep inside my aching pussy. Fucking myself as fast and hard as I could, my free hand paused long enough to pull my shirt over my tits, exposing my swollen nipples to the air before it flew to my clit, savagely tugging, rubbing, and flicking.

My orgasm tore through my flesh, my body floundering, slamming against the cold, metal stall wall. I moaned in bliss, my fingers fucking my hole with a violent fury that was increased several times over by the attention I’d just received. As my orgasm began to subside, thoughts of what I’d planned to do filled my head. Since I already had my fingers buried deep in my snatch, I decided that at least one more orgasm was needed before I could walk across campus to find a voyeur.

My pace slowed, allowing me to savor the lusty sensations igniting all over my flesh; I added a finger to my ass, shivering with erotic delight, as I built up toward another orgasm. I was mildly surprised when two coeds came in. They didn’t use the toilets at all; they just primped themselves in front of the mirror, from what I could hear, while one of them talked about the kinky sex she’d just had.

She let her boyfriend blindfold her, and then he tied her up and fucked her. To her, it sounded scandalous and dirty. To me, the thought of somebody doing that to me, making me helpless to do anything but receive a hard cock thrusting deeply inside of me, pushed me off the orgasmic cliff once more. I enjoyed a mostly silent but intense orgasm as I promised myself that I’d find somebody to do that to me.

They hung around forever, or so it seemed. Since I didn’t want to reveal myself, which would embarrass both them and me, I stayed hidden, still fingering myself, until they left for their next class or wherever they were headed. Since I was close to cumming, again, I finished myself off before I trudged across campus to the strip.

The first sideways look, the guy’s eyes popping out of his head, made me smile. When another said, “Wow!” as I passed, I felt so sexy and powerful that a spring developed in my step. Of course, that made my boobs bounce, and, suddenly, every pair of eyes on campus was focused on me. I basked in the glorious attention, almost feeling crestfallen when I arrived at Der Garten.

The small bar styled itself in the fashion of a European pub. While it had a Germanic name, the interior was an amalgam of British, Irish, and Scottish influence, with some Americana and Slovakian thrown in for good measure. Nonetheless, they served real food that was quite tasty, and the quietness appealed to me. Two couples were playing darts in the far corner, and a dozen or so other people milled about. Some of them were talking, others reading, and one guy, a sixties throwback, gently strummed a beat-up acoustic guitar.

I gave my food order, grabbed a bottle of Pinot Noir and a real wine glass, and retired to a strategically located table. The tiny table was located in a back corner. From that vantage, I had a full view of the door and windows and the entirety of the bar’s interior. That also meant that anyone seated and facing the rear of the establishment had a perfect view up my skimpy skirt. At first, I thought it was nerves, but I soon noted that I was so incredibly fucking horny that my entire body was flush with excitement and quivering.

My food, shepherd’s pie, a salad, and a side of French fries, arrived, and I buried my head in a book—A Brief History Of Time—while I ate and waited for somebody to notice. I could only manage to concentrate enough to read a sentence or two, and, then, the burning, needy arousal would take control, forcing me to raise my eyes and scan the patrons.

I’d finished the quiche-like dish, nibbled on my salad, and had begun experimenting with dipping my fries into my salad dressing when he walked in; my willing voyeur and next boyfriend had made his appearance. With my book covering my face, all he could see was my body and the mass of wild, red hair. He seemed to be safe enough, so I slammed my book down, then stretched, arching my back to just my barely concealed tits out. When he gasped and stared right at me, my pussy heated up with such intensity that my thighs burned.

With my leg swinging back and forth, I frowned at my food, feigning ignorance of his lusty leering, and picked at my salad. Another stretch, this time to push my hips forward, so my legs would spread more, accidentally made my very short skirt flare open. I could feel the cool air-conditioned air tickle my saturated labia.

I concentrated on my book, not reading a single word, glancing up now and then to ensure my voyeur was still enthralled. A minute went by, then two, and, finally, a few more minutes passed. Taking advantage of my clumsiness, I picked up my pen, near my stack of books on the edge of the table, as if to make some notes, and promptly dropped it. My pen clattered away, rolling a foot or two away.

I stood, turned my back to the roguishly handsome man, and bent at the waist to retrieve my errant ink pen. When I turned and straightened, I caught him staring. Suddenly, it was scorching hot inside the bar, but I endured the heat, teasing him more. When I retook my chair, I positioned myself so that my open legs were pointed directly toward him. Then, some serious, slutty teasing took place.

When I saw the man bend forward, gazing between my legs, I suddenly had an itch way up on my inner thigh. If his eyes focused on my engorged, shapely breasts, I’d breathe in, deeply, making my taut nipples threaten to poke through my flimsy top. I was going insane with desire, so horny that I was pondering, fingering my cunt right there.

Feeling emboldened, I looked directly at him, catching him staring. The poor guy’s jaw dropped in shock, and he quickly looked away. I kept staring at him, smiling. I knew that it was a predatory, lust-filled, hungry smile. When he finally looked back, his eyes met mine. His face softened a bit, and he quickly began studying the pattern on the rug. Finally, he looked up once more, and he found the courage to not avert his gaze.

I moaned at that, licking my lips. My legs spread wide open of their own accord, and an intoxicating, heightened arousal spread through my flesh. I was going to get up and ask him if he wanted to go someplace more private when he bolted up from his chair and walked toward me. My heart sang, and my soul leaped for joy at the notion. Regretfully, while his eyes were on me, he passed right by me, heading to the men’s room. While that wasn’t my desired result, I did take pride in seeing that I’d made him hard; his erection swelled the crotch of his pants.

I figured that while I successfully flashed, my goal of picking up somebody to fuck me had resulted in a crash and burn. Still elated, I downed the last of the wine in my glass, paid, and began gathering my books, ready to drive home.

“Um, I’m Martin,” a very nervous and wavering voice said.

It was him, fresh out of the men’s room. His erection had subsided, which made me smile.

“Can I have your phone number, so I can ask you out?”

Had he asked me that on any other day or at any other time, I may or may not have given him my number. However, I was too far gone for any pretense of civility. The slutty slut needed to be fed.

“Did you enjoy the show, you pervert? I saw you looking up my skirt and checking out my tits. Like them?” I stuck my chest out and shimmied my shoulders back and forth, shaking them in his face.

“I, uh, well, I’m sorry. I just…”

“I liked it. You got me all horny.”

“You what?”

“I liked you looking. Want to walk outside and find someplace to fuck?”

“I don’t… well. Wait! Is this a joke? Are you pledged to a sorority or something?”

“I’m pledged to getting a hot, hard cock in my pussy. Are you the one, or should I wait for the next guy?”

He grabbed my hand and led me outside. A few blocks away, there was a park-like area with plenty of bushes, trees, and other places on could be hidden from view. Even though the occasional person walked down the paths, we secreted ourselves in a copse of trees ringed by high shrubs, and I shoved Martin down to the ground, pulled out his cock, and sucked it to hardness.

His strong hands were all over me, kneading my flesh, caressing my skin, and penetrating my dripping hole. When he was fully hard, I straddled him, guiding one of his hands to my tits and the other to my throbbing clit. I came three times, getting louder and dirtier as I rode him. To give his fingers better access, I leaned back as I humped his cock, resting my hands on his legs.

“Fuck my slutty cunt. Your cock feels so good; I’m going to fucking cum again.”

For some reason, knowing I was purely out for my pleasure, I didn’t feel my usual shame over talking dirty or showing how horny I truly was. Dirty, nasty, vile things spewed from my whorish mouth, and my slut-possessed body drained every drop of cum from his balls.

“Do you live nearby?” I asked him, trying to stroke his cock back to hardness. “I’m still horny. I need more.”

“Uh, yeah, but I live with my sister.”

“Will she mind if I follow you home and fuck you until you pass out?”

Since I was out of work, I stayed the weekend at Martin’s place. I even got along with Marie, his sister. That relationship lasted almost an entire month. Martin was nice, but possessive, like the last few guys. The first few weeks were incredible, but he felt as if he needed to keep me cloistered away in his shitty, little apartment. If he had something to do, he expected me to wait there for him, as if I were a kept sex slave.

The relationship ended when he came home to find me and Marie in bed together. I hadn’t intended on cheating on him, but Marie and I had grown close, and it just happened—about a dozen times before Martin found out.

He shoved Marie off of me, calling her a whore, then began verbally berating me, telling me what a worthless, cheating slut I was. He even raised his hand at me, threatening to beat me for being such a slut. Scared out of my mind, I kicked him in his testicles, stopping any physical abuse he had planned.

“Maybe that will cure your premature ejaculation, you fucking bastard. We’re over. Lose my number.” I stormed out.

Martin had been completely on board with my dedication to finding out what I liked, sexually. The fact that some things might not have included him apparently didn’t cross his mind. He did call, several times over, begging for forgiveness and apologizing. I ignored his calls for a week until I finally let Marie answer my phone for me. Martin did not find that anywhere near as amusing as we did.

Soon thereafter, I’d gained some proficiency in using my body, somewhat rare looks, and faux innocence to attract lovers.  Love, that one thing I craved above all others, still eluded me, but I found some form of diversion in the pleasures of the flesh.  Over the years, I honed and perfected my slutty arts, but that was the beginning.  I was smart, empowered, and I discovered that I could easily tap into men’s primal urges to get the hard fucking I craved. Bit by agonizing bit, the self-awareness that I wasn’t just a worthless slut crept into my essence. The severe emotional damage was still there, and it erupted all the time, but I’d found a sort of balance, finding a way to live with my glorious, slutty affliction. I no longer had to choose between being a slut or being myself; I could be my slutty self.

To be continued…