I Stopped Feeling Guilty About Wanting One Way Selfish Sex.

I used to think wanting filthy, selfish, one-sided sex made me a bad feminist. In my head, feminism meant women should never settle for being used or objectified. It meant sex should be equal, both people giving and receiving, both people’s pleasure mattering the same. So when I realised I secretly wanted the complete opposite (someone focusing entirely on me for hours while I did nothing, gave nothing, and just took) it felt like I was betraying everything I believed in. But it was more than that. I wanted high energy, rough and manhandling. No pain, just domination. My brain was either wired differently to the feminist norm, or wired perfectly. My bedroom needed a delicious counterbalance to my activism. A frustrating contradiction.

It felt like I was admitting I wanted to be treated as an object after all, just in a way that suited me. The guilt was loud because it clashed with every thread I’d ever written about power, consent, and how women deserve better than mediocre, male centred, selfish sex.

I wanted sex that was about me.

Just me. No connection.

Nothing fair.

Secret outside… loud inside.

Just someone ruining me for hours while I lay there and felt it. Indulged in it. The dirtier and more one-sided it sounded, the more my brain told me I was a hypocrite. I’d spent years calling out men for treating foreplay like a chore and only caring about their own pleasure. Now here I was craving the exact same thing, just flipped in my favour. It was exhausting.

I’ve had many boyfriends, each with unique personalities and quirks. Sexually though, they were all pretty much the same, each with a bleed of error that seemed to be genetic to their gender.

I’d give them the perfect Gob-Job, then after, they would stick it in you like you was getting a treat with no returns. I had four years of that, hardly any foreplay. And he was so light with me too. I craved more, I wanted to be thrown, dragged across the bed, my arse slapped. But he refused.

I was his precious little doll.

His pet name for me was Buttonboo.

“Are you enjoying it, Button?”

“Did you cum, Boo?”

Good grief, my soul was in tatters. I just wanted a hand around my throat and my head pushed into the mattress. Every guy since my marriage has been a variation of either sickly, clueless or toxic. Even the guy I was seeing on the side of my marriage, although a step up, he never really hit the right spot either. The fantasy was always unreachable.

Dating was the same. You’d get talking to a really nice guy, then bang, a dick-pic you didn’t ask for lands. Or he’ll request a photo of something weird or ask me if I had mates that wanted a threesome. The more it happened, the stronger my urges and fantasies got. I called it “Selfish Curious”, I was only interested in what men could make me feel. Which wasn’t a lot.

I was convinced that I would never find it. Men were genetically created to breed. And worst still, I couldn’t really blame them just because I was wired differently.

I would sit and discuss it with friends, what he would be like. Not appearance, I knew wishing for the Mills and Boon guy on top of what I needed just weren’t going to happen. I imagined him as at least bigger than me, which isn’t hard. I’m 5 foot 3 inches without shoes. It’s why men are gentle with me. It’s really frustrating.

I also imagine him as really focused, selfless and giving. A guy with a plan. What I wanted wasn’t random, making love or frantic sex. It was a very deliberate fantasy of being taken apart, my fantasy fulfilled one part at a time, one minute after the other. I imagine it a roller-coaster, at a man’s mercy. I wasn’t convinced he/they existed for the longest time. But that sort of attention, if he did exist, needed a plan. However, their plan always seemed to be get their load blown as fast as possible.

It’s exhausting.

I told myself it was internalised misogyny. That I needed to unlearn the idea that women should be grateful for any attention. That good sex should be equal and mutual and communicative and all the other words we throw around now.

And it is.

Most of the time.

Sometimes I wanted filthy. I wanted to be taken apart and not have to put anyone else back together afterwards. I wanted hours of attention with zero pressure to perform or give back or even make eye contact if I didn’t feel like it. The thought of that used to make me feel like a traitor to everything I stood for. My friends told me I was mental, that it didn’t exist, it couldn’t exist because it’s a two way thing. Well, I didn’t want it, I wanted to feel good for once. I wanted to be fully emersed and not have it suddenly stop abruptly as I’m just heating up.

I’d write angry threads about toxic masculinity and then go home and touch myself thinking about the exact kind of man who would never ask me to return the favour. The hypocrisy was loud. And I knew finding such a thing would be impossible.

I’ll be honest. I thought it was women with the same wants as myself, that maybe it was a kink that had no name. That these men wouldn’t or even couldn’t exist. But they did. For the first time ever, they had a name: Pleasure-Doms.

I told myself I was studying power dynamics.

I was actually getting wet reading these accounts.

Every time I came across another account of a woman losing her mind for hours at the hands of one of these guys, I felt that same guilty twist in my stomach. Why does this turn me on so much? I’d close the tab, make a cup of tea, and tell myself I was just being professional. Then I’d open it again five minutes later.

I was in a place where if these rumours were true, I didn’t care what he looked like. Why would I need to care? I didn’t have to do anything back to him? We don’t fancy our dildos and vibrators, they are merely appealing because of what they can do. This was where my head was at. I wanted a slave.

There, I said it.

So when I discovered a lead through another woman, the whispers, the rumours, I got fired up really easily. I was weak. I was clutching to my professionalism but just barely. But I was scared of disappointment. I wanted to avoid him to be honest. I tried to keep my distance and steer clear completely. I sent a friend undercover, a story for another time. But that was a mistake on my behalf, because I basically had sent in someone I trusted one-hundred percent to tell the truth, and she did just that. Heresy and rumour was now irrelevant. I now had the testimony of a person that had no reason to lie. It made everything worse.

The Breaking Point

I’d spent months reading about the kind of things I was begging for. Months hearing women describe it like it had rewired them. And every time I tried to push the thought away it came back stronger. I started fantasising about it during the day. In meetings. On the train. I’d catch myself crossing my legs and realise I’d been thinking about long, slow attention with no pressure to do anything except receive.

The guilt was still there. Loud. But it was losing.

I kept telling myself it was just fantasy. That wanting something didn’t mean I had to act on it. That good feminists didn’t chase this kind of one-sided pleasure. They built healthy, equal dynamics. They communicated. They didn’t secretly crave being selfish in bed. I shouldn’t have acted on it, just because it was available, I didn’t have to go for it. I should have had more respect for myself, I deserved something solid, something possible. The selfish one way stuff was a fantasy. I shouldn’t take it.

Except I did.

And I’m so glad.

And the more I tried to shame myself out of it, the more the shame started to feel fake. It made me feel dirty, and I liked it. Like I was performing feminism for an audience that wasn’t even in the room. I had the chance to be treated the way I had always wanted to be treated. It was a chance to be used and not judged for it, to be treated like I was filthy and nobody would ever know. I could become something else. Someone else. And only he would ever know that version of me.

I didn’t make a big dramatic decision. There was no journal entry or big conversation with myself. I just, let it happen. I stopped telling myself I was a bad person for wanting filthy, greedy, one-sided sex. I stopped apologising to an imaginary version of myself that was supposed to only want balanced, respectful encounters.

And once the guilt loosened its grip, the experiences that followed felt completely different.

The first time I let myself fully receive without feeling like I owed anything back, my body reacted like it had been waiting years for permission. Every touch felt sharper. Every orgasm hit harder because I wasn’t busy managing anyone else’s feelings or worrying if I was taking too long or being too much. I could just… be there. Moaning. Shaking. Coming again and again without having to check in or reciprocate or perform gratitude.

It was filthy. It was selfish. It was exactly what I’d been ashamed of wanting.

And it was the best session I’d ever had.

I stopped caring about being “good” in bed. I stopped worrying about whether I was giving enough. I let myself be greedy. I let myself take and take and take until my legs were shaking and my voice was gone and I couldn’t think straight. The men who were actually good at this, the ones who genuinely got off on giving, made it easy. They didn’t rush. They didn’t make me feel like I had to earn the next orgasm. They just kept going until I was completely gone.

The Hypocrisy

But these other guys, though. He’s on you constantly and hitting everything you want and in ways it’s never been hit. He’s not being nice, he’s not sickly sweet. He’s overwhelming you and breaking you down with orgasm after orgasm, and you can see it in his eyes, he’s enjoying it as much as you are. Without trying, you are giving him the reward he so desires, and the whole thing makes no sense.

Imagine you have a plug in. A huge stainless steel beast that’s both uncomfortable and delicious in equal measure. Imagine there’s vibe on the rim of that plug, buzzing so hard your teeth are rattling. His mouth, right where it needs to be. These are guys are creative, and they are practised, and for a very good reason. The world just goes dark around you.

None of it makes sense. I just know I like it and feels great.

Your mind… empty.

All the people that you could make uncomfortable. The ex-boyfriend, the current boyfriend, the best friend, you’re husband, none of these people mean anything in that moment, nobody matters, not even your chosen guy. It’s like you’re completely free to feel.

That moment you try to get away because you can’t take any more. He grabs your ankle firm and unapologetic, dragging you back to him as you do a silly and embarrassing giggle because you can do fuck all else. He devours you without asking your permission. Moments like that take hold and live rent free in your head long after you’ve parted.

It’s moments like those that kill the guilt. Nobody matters, their opinions, their judgements… none of it means anything, because they have no right to tell you who you should be using to feel good.

You live once.

Your husband should have listened. Your partner should’ve tried harder. Your best friend should’ve got there first. Maybe they did and let him go. Whatever their problem, it means nothing to you as another orgasm comes crashing over your pelvis like waves on rocks.

The guilt didn’t disappear overnight. It still whispers sometimes. When I get home after and my thighs are sore and I can still feel where someone’s mouth was for hours. When I remember how loud I got and how little I cared about anything except my own pleasure. The old voice tries to creep back in. You’re being selfish. You’re using him.

But now I answer it.

Yes. I am being selfish. And it feels fucking incredible.

The best nights were the ones where nothing was expected of me except to feel. When you take his dick out of the equation, when you deny him the ability to climax, and if that’s what he’s into like these guys often are, then you have a slave that dominates and owns you. You are worshipped and savaged at the same time.

Long, slow sessions that started with kissing that made my brain short-circuit and ended with me lying there wrecked, unable to move, while someone else took care of everything. No pressure to suck dick. No guilt about not being “active” enough. Just wave after wave of attention until my body couldn’t take any more.

I learned what it felt like to come so many times I lost count. When you let an orgasm rush through you and you no longer have to cling to it, it no longer signals the end. Now, you’re not as desperate, because there’s another already being set up like a trap with your name on it. To squirt and not feel embarrassed. To cry from the intensity and not have to explain myself. To be completely selfish and have the person on the other end treat that selfishness like a gift instead of a burden. These guys that do this, genuinely feel great doing it, you can see it in their eyes. When they look at you like they worship you, like you are the centre of their world, even if for a few hours.

I now understand why they do all this studying, learning, finding every trick and mapping out every nerve. It’s so they can unravel you as effectively and as intensely as humanly possible. They study every possible way to break you and reduce you to your most primal of states. Pleasure. Strangely, the way I see it, it levels the playing field again. It’s creating the very bonds and power dynamic that at first glance, it seems to be breaking. When you’re squirming in pleasure, and he’s looking down at your naked body knowing he can’t take it; that’s a fucking power I never ever thought I would feel. You end up acting and playing into it, enjoying it. Enticing him to break. And the whole thing is as intense as it is fun, and I’ve never felt anything like it.

It rewired something in me.

I stopped apologising for wanting what I wanted. I stopped pretending I was only into balanced, mutual sex when what I actually craved was the kind of attention that left me boneless and brainless for hours afterwards. The kind where I didn’t have to do anything except lie there and take it.

And once I stopped feeling guilty about that, the experiences got even better. Because I wasn’t fighting myself the whole time. I could just enjoy being greedy.

Wanting to be selfish in bed doesn’t cancel out everything else I stand for. It just means I’m human. And horny. And tired of pretending I only want polite, equal encounters when sometimes what I actually want is to be taken apart for hours by someone who knows exactly what they’re doing and doesn’t expect anything in return.

When I want something a bit more two way, or even loving, normal sex, then there are men for that too, they are in abundance. They are common.

The guilt tried to protect me. It tried to keep me “good.” But letting it go didn’t make me worse. It made the sex better. It made me more honest. It made me stop settling for anything that didn’t leave me shaking and satisfied and completely, deliciously selfish. You don’t let men decide what you want. Don’t let your exes shame you. Don’t let friends put you off when clearly they are jealous. You want what you want, and you go for it. Or you’ll regret and always wonder, what if.

Selfish sex is different. It’s freeing.

And once you’ve had that… once you’ve stopped apologising for wanting it… going back to feeling guilty feels like the real betrayal.

Not of feminism.

Of yourself.

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