A Woman.

I am not gentle and docile. I am not soft-spoken and nurturing. I am not traditionally domestic, or classically feminine, and yet I demand to be treated as such. But who am I to ask for such favor? The truth is: I am not a woman. I am not the last creation of God, I was not designed as the perfect male companion, (all sugar and spice and everything nice) and men don’t see me so sweet. The curves of my hips do not make them weak in the knees, my gentle features do not calm their spirits, and they don’t feel the need to take care of me. And who can blame him? The melodic tones of my voice do not remind him of his mother, my chemical composition was not made to assuage his biological cravings, and I do not naturally sublimate my own needs for the needs of him and his son. I am not that kind, I am not that caring, and I really don’t give a shit. I am not patient enough, and my pussy powers are limited. I have not been blessed by the gifts of Aphrodite, or touched by the legacy of Helen of Troy; my face will never start a war, nor will the fruit of my loins spawn a faith that will change the course of the world. I am not so beautiful, not so graceful, and my tits don’t stop traffic. I get it! I am not the fairer sex, so my requests are not so fair. But knowing doesn’t change anything, because I want it more than ever. Treat me like a Princess. Touch me like a lady. Just pretend that I'm a woman . . . even if my dick is bigger than yours.