I know it’s irrational, I know it sounds silly. I know there is no ultimate benchmark of behaviour whereby one could draw a line that divides people into conclusive ‘good’ or ‘bad’ categories. I know that it’s needlessly patronising – infantilising, even – and that by accepting the label I put myself in a position that’s wildly at odds with the feminist principles that guide the rest of my life. But still: I want you to tell me I’m a very good girl.
When I’m sucking your cock: good girl. When I bend over and place both palms on my bum, spreading my cheeks so that you can plunge your dick straight into my glistening cunt: good girl. When I bite my lip and grip the bedposts to push back against the head of your dick, held tightly at the entrance to my ass? Good girl.
I need your praise. I physically crave your vocal approval. I would crawl naked from one end of the kitchen all the way through the house to where you sit, enthroned, on the sofa, if you’ll reward me with a ‘good girl’ when I get there.
It’s not just in the bedroom, either. When I bake an especially good apple cake, which you eat warm, drenched in double cream. When you scrape the final spoonfuls from the bowl, standing up in the kitchen because it was too good to take to the table to eat properly, and you look up at me and smile with possessive pride: good girl.
And you may be thinking here that this is still a role-play thing. It’s a jokey, fun, sexy way for you to offer me praise. You’d be wrong. ‘Good girl’ serves as a powerful turn-on and a playful bit of friendly connection, but that is not all it is. ‘Good girl’ is sometimes a powerful tool with which to control my literal behaviour.
Like that time when you woke up on a Saturday morning and caught me lounging on the sofa eating grapes. At that time of the day I would usually be working: I had a book to write and blog posts to publish and projects to complete and all manner of worries to obsess over. But instead of the traditional scruffy, panicking mess hunched over a laptop you found me instead on the sofa, eating grapes and watching Grand Designs at midday on a rainy Saturday. You stood next to me, towering over my blissfully prostrate form. I will remember for a very long time the way you looked down at me with filthy eyes and a soft, comforting smile and said: “You’re relaxing? Good girl.”
Emphasis on the second word: good girl.
There are almost as many ways to say it as there are occasions when I’m thirsting to hear it.
Good girl. Good girl.
Sometimes you draw out the second word for so long I find myself aching for the ending. Good… giiiirrrrl.
Sometimes you punch the first word into being with the kind of power that usually accompanies a fuckthrust: good girl.
And sometimes you whisper it softly in my ear, when you’ve wrapped me in your arms and are squeezing me tight, running big hands over my back and pressing your crotch forward so it crushes up tight against mine: good girl.
I’m not just any good girl, either: I’m your good girl. If there were a medal which said ‘good girl’ in shiny gold letters, I would fight off fifty people for the pleasure of having you hang that fucker round my neck.
Remember that time when someone else was sucking your cock? And you called her ‘good girl’ on the downstroke? I experienced a burst of such pure, unfathomable sadness that I almost had to call a halt to the proceedings.
I didn’t though, for two reasons. First because I love her – this incredible, brilliant, fierce and intelligent woman was sucking my boyfriend’s cock. Your cock. I wanted to show you off – I was proud. Second, of course, because you were both having fun. And if I’d stopped it I’d have been very bad indeed. So I watched as you closed your eyes in pleasure while she worked your dick with her mouth, and I bit my naughty tongue.
Because I’m not bad – I’m a very good girl. Your good girl.
You say “Who’s my good girl?” and I say “Me.”
And my cunt throbs along with my heart and I am in that moment both powerful and weak. Strong and capable and brilliant and worthy of pride, yet small and meek and desperate for approval.
Yes, it’s patronising. It infantilises me and makes you the arbiter of whether I go to bed happy or sad. Satisfied or disappointed. That ‘good girl’ is – in the split second it tumbles from your lips – a benchmark of whether I am acceptable as a person. It’s my way of measuring how successful I am, where the only data point collected is ‘whether I have pleased you.’ It’s irrational. Offensive. Entirely fucked-up.
But still. I want you to call me a good girl.
I want you to tell me I’m good when I kneel in front of you and unlace your shoes at the end of the working day. Oh god how I miss unlacing your shoes at the end of the working day! Looking up at you from below, from the position I chose right here at your feet, and hoping that when you’ve unloaded your work woes you will order me to unzip your jeans and let you unload your cum down my throat.
I want to be ‘good’ when you press your palm flat on the back of my head and thrust your dick up hard so it chokes me, or when you grunt with satisfaction as you shove it roughly into my cunt. I want to be good enough to take a really solid beating, enough to make me gasp and my eyes water. I want to be rewarded with those two perfect words at the moment you grow tired of spanking me and decide to start fucking instead.
I will be your good girl in the kitchen when I’m cooking. In the car when I’m passing you sweets and lining up tunes. In the garden when I’ve dug a really massive hole to lay a patio and you’re impressed with my blood, sweat and toil. In the bedroom when we’re fucking and the lounge when we’re fucking and in the hallway when we’re fucking and bent over the desk in your office when we’re fucking and you smack me to make me whimper just so you get the pleasure of telling me to shut up.
I will shut up when you tell me, cos I’m a good fucking girl, and I’ll do anything to hear those two perfect words. I have no idea why they do it for me, but whatever it is they do, they do it hard.
So I know it’s cheap and I know it’s easy and I know that it’s infantilising and sexist and highly problematic but fucking hell.
Fuck. Ing. Hell.
I so desperately love knowing that I’m your good girl. I’ll beg for it, run miles for it, drink piss for it. I will shut my mouth round your cock at the snap of your fucking fingers if you’ll say it. Just once.
All together now: