We’re sexting. It’s super hot and he’s saying all the right things. His words are like a slow drip of serotonin, making my cunt throb, making me crave him, snaking through my body and making me wanty and needy and wet. I’ve been holding off, being good and not touching myself because I don’t want to rush. I want more of his slow burning desire, I want to make it last. We continue and he describes, in delicious detail, the way he wants to push inside of me and roll us over so I’m on top …

<record scratch sound>

<enter my irrational insecurities, my inner saboteurs>

On top? Are you kidding? He will die. You will crush him to dust. And even if you don’t, and he lives, no one wants to see that! You think that ‘from below’ is your best angle? Please. Come on, do you even have the thigh strength to ride him properly?  If he doesn’t die, you might! Ha! Is he attracted to melted candles? Because that’s basically what you look like naked …

I’m my own cock-blocker. I’m my own buzzkill, and it fucking sucks. Not even fantasies are safe, let alone the real thing.

It’s a cruel script, and when it plays on repeat, it takes me out of whatever moment I’m in, no matter how amorous or erotic it may be.  The hardest part about these self-sabotage scripts is that they’re loops, self-fulfilling prophecies that can be so hard to get out of. To break the cycle, you must interrupt them and replace them with something less harmful. Sounds easy, but it’s not.

Still, I fight the good fight:

But it was him who suggested it. He knows what you look like, he knows what he’s in for. And moreover, he likes it. He likes YOU, he’s into it, he’s literally telling you he wants to push his body inside of yours. Girl, how much more reassurance do you need?! 

He continues with the scene, unintentionally upping the ante. He’s intimating how he wants to watch me touch myself as we fuck, how he wants to release a fountain of cum inside of me while he watches my head tip back and my tits bounce and ….

I can’t stand it any longer. My words blink from the text field to a conversation bubble: “I’m shy. I’m too fat to be on top …”

I watch the three bubbles indicating his typing. It seems to go on forever, but just when the irrational insecurities begin to crop up again the most encouraging and rational paragraph appears. I read it quickly, scanning for blame, rejection, anything to confirm that my inner saboteurs have won.

I read it again and take in his words more slowly. They are kind. They are patient and empathetic. They are gentle and generous and the last line makes my breath catch in my throat.

“Thank you for telling me.”

It’s in that moment that I realise that  maybe the insecurity and fear is less about how I actually look and more about whether I feel seen. Maybe I don’t actually need to think those terrible things if I know that it’s okay for them to exist. Perhaps I don’t always have to protect myself.  When someone meets you where you are, when someone shows you their humanity when you can’t hide your own, surely you can trust them, right? I want to because if I trust him to really hear me and see me, how can I distrust him when he says he wants me?

We pick up where we left off, the heat of our words radiating from my fingers as I sit up on my knees, touching myself. I imagine fucking him, just like he imagined. Now it’s how I see us too, entangled and undulating, rutting against each other. I can see myself, triumphantly bouncing on his cock, joyous and unfettered, gorgeous and alive. I’m lost in the would-be sensation of him exploding inside me, head back, tits bouncing. When I finally cum I am euphoric. I am secure and I am proud, albeit crumpled with passion and damp with exertion. I am suddenly aware of how much I want that freedom, how much I want to shed the shame and worry and let go of a lifetime of inhibitions.

And then it hits me:

I can.


Violet Fawkes

Violet Fawkes (she/her) is a freelance writer and sex blogger focusing on pleasure education, erotic fiction, and the intersection of identity, kink and mental health.