owner: one who owns; a rightful proprietor; one who has the legal or rightful title, whether he is the possessor or not (master, possessor, proprietor)

Three men have “owned” me. My father: parents own their children. As children, we are their property, their responsibility.

The other two men were Dexter and my boyfriend before him, Alexander. A man doesn’t own a woman until he owns her vagina. And in order to own her vagina, he must own her clitoris.

If an orgasm is the greatest natural somasensory pleasure a human can experience, it’s only fitting that the person who can provide you that pleasure can wield the greatest power over you. Potentially.

If a man cannot own my clitoris, I will never be truly his. I am too much of a sexual being to not have this need met. Dexter and Alexander both owned my clitoris. Both of them were able to go down on me and make me orgasm to the tune of 3-5 a session. Both of them were able to elicit 40 orgasms in one round of oral sex (after 40, I have always been too dizzy to continue counting and I don’t necessarily think it’s a good thing to have blood detracted from the brain this long).

Most men I’ve slept with go down, or try to go down, on me. But I always bring them up. They may or may not assume I’m uncomfortable with oral sex – which is not the case. Partially I’m phobic about STDs, so unless I’ve verified he’s clean and we’ve discussed his sexual past, I pretty much relegate sex to prophylactic intercourse. But the truth is, until I’ve invested in a relationship with a man, he doesn’t get full access – he doesn’t get the map and he doesn’t get the keys. I taught Dexter and Alexander everything they needed to know to own me. I was their teacher; they were both eager and attentive students – who then became the masters.

A man can own me, but in order to own me, he most own my vagina. In order to own my vagina, he must own my clitoris. And in order to own my clitoris, he must have my heart.

I believe that my best sex will be with my greatest love.


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