the life and musings of a kinky slut


I am sick and tired of one word I hear all the time: cute.

People often use that word to describe me. People, during first introductions, will use it. People who have never known each other will utter the exact same sentence to compliment my looks.

“You are cute.”

I get it. I totally get it. The smile. The curls. The school girl outfits. The cheeks. The dimples. Especially the dimples.

I’m not saying I’m not cute. That would be a denial of a basic fact. That is not why I’m writing this.

It’s just.

I know one might be happy to be called such a sweet description. There are far worse things a person could be called. But sometimes that word makes me want to bash my head up against a wall.

I hear it all the time. ALL THE TIME.

No one has, or of yet, called me that word during sex. (If they had, our fun would’ve ended far too soon.) But for a person who is so sexual, for a footloose and fancy free slut like me, cute can feel less than apt.

Why not sexy? Or provocative? Or enchanting?

Why not engaging? Or just plain hot?

Cute seems so small, almost dismissive, in comparison to just about any other compliment when it comes to looks.

Curvaceous. Cunning. Coy.

I could just as easily be called any of the descriptors I’ve used thus far. Yet, it is cute I always get.

Cute makes its way into conversation as offhand comments, out of context interjections, never falling from my lips.

Once someone who I found to be drop dead sexy called me cute during our initial flirtation. In that instance, I didn’t fault them. Nor did their words take away from the fact I wanted them to do any and everything to me. Still, it was a slight sting to the moment, a paper cut on the edge of an unforgettable encounter.

There have been times when cute was far away, not existing in my world. The one moment I keep going back to was about a year ago. As the Gent and I were fucking, he looked down on me, I looked up at him, and he called me beautiful.  As he drove his cock in and out of me, I believed him. For those precious breaths, I felt special. I felt sexy and gorgeous and irresistible. I felt beautiful. But those moments are too few and far between.

I can’t run away from the word. I can’t deny its existence, much like one can’t deny the face staring back at them in the mirror. I see it everyday. I see why people use that word to describe me. It is appropriate. It is a part of who I am, and how the world perceives me, whether I like it or not.

It is a four letter word I’ve learned to live with, though if I never hear it again it will be too soon.

Fuck it, I’m cute.

However, I would love it if the world saw, and knew, I was more than just that little word.

Categorised as: Gent | Random | Rant | Sex

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