I AM A SIDE CHICK AND I FEED MARRIED MEN MY PADS

I never meant to become what I am.

For years I lived one life in public and another life in secret. I always chose the same kind of men,married, wealthy, the kind who could open doors I could not. I told myself I wanted comfort, protection, and a way out of fear. But wanting turned into needing, and needing turned into control.

I learned a few old tricks from people who promised easy results. I did small things at first: secret gifts, whispered lies, small rituals that made them remember me in quiet moments. When that worked, I pushed harder. I wanted them to want me the way I wanted to be wanted — completely, without question.

I would always make sure after sleeping with then I keep their semen, when I'm on my periods i would then mix their semen with my period bl00d. Then I'd keep it for the day I cook for them.

I keep saying them because I had multiple partners and I did the same to all of them. I enjoyed a luxurious lifestyle through their sweats. The more I do the ritual the more I attract other wealthy men. Even those who never saw a woman in me.

It worked more than I expected. Men who once glanced at me politely began to call at odd hours. They cleared their schedules, made excuses, and kept secrets of their own. Their eyes followed me at parties.

They said things they hadn’t said to their wives. For a while I thought I had won. But what I had built was not love. It was dependency — on me, on my tricks, on the power I held over people. And power eats the soul.

The first time I saw the fear in a man’s face when I told him I was leaving him alone, I should have stopped. Instead I kept going. I told myself it was survival. I told myself I was fixing the life I had been given. I told myself I was making something better. The truth is more ugly: I was filling a hole inside me with other people’s devotion, and the hole only grew.

Now I wake up with regret. I lie awake and hear the voices of the people I hurt. The families I broke apart. The lies I told to keep myself safe. There are nights I feel followed by the past — by the people I used, by the decisions that seemed small until they weren’t. I want to say sorry, but apology feels too small for the damage done.

If there is any lesson in my story it is this: quick fixes and secret rituals never heal what is broken inside. You can chase obsession, money, or attention, but you cannot build a peaceful life on other people’s pain. Healing is harder. It means facing what you did, asking for forgiveness, and changing your life in ways that scare you.

I don’t know if I can fix all the harm I caused. I only know I don’t want to keep living as a ghost of the person I used to be. This is my confession. This is my start.