I want to have kids someday. My girlfriend does, too—but only when we’re having sex. When we’re not having sex, she says she hates kids and never wanted them.
But every time we fuck, she begs me to cum inside her and give her a baby. Then, five minutes after I’ve cum inside her, she’s frantically getting dressed and heading out to Walgreens to buy a morning-after pill. This same pattern plays out every time—cum, rinse, repeat.
When we’re in bed together, it’s always the same script:
Oh, Daddy, please cum in me! Please! Please! Fill me up with your cum and give me a baby!
“Are you sure?”
Yes, Daddy, I want your baby. Please, give me your baby.
And then it’s back off to Walgreens or CVS for another egg-killing pill.
If she’s merely playing some kind of little head game, she puts her body through hell just for the privilege of playing it. Those morning-after pills rip her insides to shreds for at least three days. There are all sorts of discharges and clots and mystery fluids and ejected tissues and vicious, borderline-violent mood swings. So there’s something going on here that’s much deeper than role-playing.
She’s a beautiful girl. She’s also horrible in bed. She’s the only girl I’ve ever been with who cannot have an orgasm with another person. Ever. She’s only able to get herself off with her hand while she’s entirely alone. And she tells me there are two fantasies that take her over the top—one is of me impregnating her, the other is of me humiliating her by fucking other girls.
That’s right—she can’t have an orgasm by having sex with me, but fantasizing about me crushing her soul by being with other girls works like a charm every time.
But that’s only when she’s not fantasizing about me impregnating her.
When we were first flirting on Facebook, she wanted to see selfies—but not of my face or my junk. She wanted to see my cum. So I shot a big load on a glass desktop and sent her a picture of it. She begged for more.
We visited some friends of mine a little while back, and my buddy’s girlfriend asked her if she ever wanted kids. She quickly shook her head “No” and gave her an “Are you crazy?” kind of look.
As we were driving back home, I said, “Why did you tell Sally that you never wanted kids?”
Because I don’t.
“But that’s not what you say when we’re having sex.”
I don’t want to talk about this anymore.
“Fine, then. But do me a favor—don’t talk about it EVER AGAIN when we’re having sex, either, because this is really really fucked-up.”
OK, I won’t.
Then, sure enough, next time we’re doing it, she’s begging me to fill her up like she’s a sports car and I’m a gas-pump nozzle.
She says she doesn’t want kids because she’d be a horrible mom—I agree with that entirely—and because she wants to focus on her career.
But when we’re having sex, a deeper and more primal part of her emerges, some long-buried maternal instinct that only reveals itself when we’re both naked and capable of creating another life together.
I’m a bit older than she is, so I don’t know how much the “Daddy” thing is part of her damage. She’s never said anything bad about her father—not a word about him molesting or abusing her. It was her mom who was the monster. So this might have nothing to do with her parents and everything to do with conflicting instincts that are warring inside her.
Are there two people inside her body? The person that the world sees is a self-consciously empowered, career-oriented modern woman. The one that I see in bed is a vulnerable little girl with a burning maternal instinct who only unmasks herself when she’s naked and able to conceive.
She has an uncontrollable compulsion to create another life and then instantly kill it. She keeps making the same wish and then snuffing it out the minute it comes true. And it’s tearing me, her, and us apart.
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