Melissa P...

...your book moved me, because I feel I have been where you have been. Except I haven't reached the ending you have yet, but I anxiously anticipate it.
I too only saw myself as a sexual object, my main goal in terms of sex to excite male desire with my sensuality. An object of pleasure, not an equal partner in love. And sex has often been the quick fix to a bout of extreme loneliness, just needing to be with someone no matter how. And how that really doesn't work, and I've never learned that. That we need to exlore ourselves in whole, not just respond to the carnal top coat.
Every time it happens, and that horrible feeling of cheapness and regret and stupidity, and once again being alone. As he pulls on his clothes, embarassed too, and I watch him from the crumpled mess of my bed, we don't speak, I just stare, hoping for "So what are you doing later?" in the nicest sense. And then the door slams, and I'm left with the harsh grey light poking through the curtains. Left to clear away the grimy reminders, a dusty half-drunk glass of water, the shreds of the Durex wrapper, get rid of that awful smell of a stranger, filled with the whole context of what just happened. That stench of alcohol and hoarding cologne, and a smoky nightclub.
Never since Madame Bovary have I felt such empathy with a book, like, really felt I know exactly what they are describing and discussing, and able to measure how well they describe ideas I too have felt. It's moments like that which make you realise how rich reading can be.