What It Feels Like To Be Used For Sex

By Anonymous // As told to Aliya Rhodes

Maybe it’s the burn of alcohol that trickles down my throat, or the sting of the smoke that fills my breath. Maybe it’s the constant compliments that poison my soul and blind me of your artificial “love.” I should know better by now, since I am left broken with a void that will only be filled by your touch, yet I still find myself drowning in your attention.

“You’re really cute; we should hang sometime.”

“I like you, you’re so fun.”

“Hey beautiful, lets hangout.”


It all starts the same: the vibration of my phone as his name pops up on my screen. Butterflies in my stomach come to life as I start getting ready. After my usual routine of showering, doing my hair and  putting on makeup, I find my stash. My tiny glass teapot once filled with water during my doll tea parties is now filled with a substance in preparation for high school parties. In seconds, a calmness takes over my body. One foot glides lightly in front of the other as I tiptoe out my back door. He waits for me in his car with the lights off, and we drive away giggling about what our night will consist of: sex.

I never used to be this way. Before high school, guys didn’t really talk to me. I was the intelligent little girl too awkward for her own body. Honestly, it wasn’t until I hit puberty that guys were begging to get with me. Freshman year, I was introduced to having eyes on my body, on my face, on me. Being naive only got me so far; I was being used daily and hadn’t fully realized what they were doing to me. All my life I was rejected, and so I never wanted to make that boy with the curly hair and kind eyes feel that way. It started off with a kiss; our lips touched and at first I felt nothing. One thing led to another, and the next thing I know I’m naked in his basement worrying about if I’ll be pregnant or not.

After weeks of me ending up in this boy’s basement, I thought that he might finally ask me out. Instead, he confessed three powerful words: I love you. I let his smooth tongue convince me that our relationship was healthy, which is ironic considering we weren’t even dating. Our only title was “Sex Buddies,” and I pretended that was okay because he loved me.

The next day, there was no text from him. I snapchatted him for our streak, and he left me on read. I decided to text him, and there was no reply. What did I do wrong? Turns out, the boy’s eyes weren’t kind at all. Instead, they were full of heartache which only left me with a heartbreak.

That was the first time, and each time after that it got worse. The basement turned into a dressing room, that turned into a car, that turned into my friend’s room, that even turned into a forest preserve. I found my thoughts tracing back to the way our bodies felt curled up next to each other at any moment, and during my exams I would tell myself to stop. I was spiraling out of control to the point where I didn’t know how to handle it, sometimes I still don’t.

Weed is one of my escapes. Throughout middle school I was never too fond of it, but once I hit rock bottom I used it religiously. Some days I’d wake up at 4 a.m. just to smoke, and I’ll walk into first period high as a kite. I wouldn’t call it an addiction, but I’m dependent on it. So dependent on it that I would eat an edible before my dance class just to feel the sense of relief. I became really good at disguising my side affects; perfume and eye drops go a long way.

During the months of my all time low, which consisted of me slacking on schoolwork, getting high everyday and cutting deep into my broken body, I was getting tired of the same old habits. I tried not eating for a few days on end, but that only made me crave human touch more. There were never any notifications on my phone as I broke off friendships. I was entirely alone. You’re worthless, I would tell myself. You deserve to die. No guy actually likes you, you’re just someone to sleep with. My own enemy wasn’t always the boys that would get into my pants, it was myself.

Other people’s comments make the battle so much worse. I can’t even go throughout my day without hearing, “Oh my God, she’s such a slut.” I thought I wanted everyone’s eyes on me, I was wrong. Every day was the same struggle. Being known as the biggest ho in 9th grade isn’t really an accomplishment or something to be proud of. I was sick of it, so I found one more outlet to help cope with this sorrow taking over my life: death. The fan that sits on my ceiling waited for me to tie the rope, but it wasn’t strong enough to support even my last wish.

Not all of my coping mechanisms are unhealthy. Dance has always been the one consistent thing in my life. It was a good distraction, it took me away from my problems. When I moved my body, I was taken away from the screaming of my father, the lies of the guys I had sex with, and the aching for love and human interaction. I put all of my emotion into dancing, and for that reason I will never stop loving that outlet.

Soon enough, those outlets stopped filling the deep oblivion that pulsed through my veins. I needed to stop. The memories of the boys who used me and the lies they told me‒were eating me alive. I couldn’t take it anymore. Those lies turned into ashes as I burned them from my memory, and their words stopped bruising my skin once I stopped listening. There would be no more random hookups to satisfy my hunger. I am free.

As my phone dings and a guy’s name appears on my screen, the once excited butterflies end up in an endless slumber. I wasn’t meant to be penetrated by hatred and fake love. I am worth something, and there’s more to me than my looks. I can finally say that I’m okay with myself, and trust me when I say that it’s the best feeling in the world; it’s better than meaningless sex.