There’s something pleasantly delightful about wearing this bodysuit that is slightly too small for me. Tightly wound up, panties in a bunch, and I’m squirming just a little bit with my garter belt on and if it weren’t so warm I’d don one of those fur coats over there, then smoke cigarettes and masturbate, except that somebody once said that good things come to those who wait. So I’ll wait to come, which is whenever he decides that I might be awake, and he can come over, and while whatever euphemistic hangout terminology he threw at me last night might no longer suffice, just so long as he fucks me it’s all good.
It’s probably a good thing that I don’t have a real job. Only out late slinging drinks at people whose leeringly lecherous eyes are so consistently unavoidable. As I meander around behind the bar and try to make everybody think that in some way, yes, of course, yes I want to fuck you, just as a means to get a man to buy another drink and spend another dollar, and even if all I get is just the tip, well the bigger the tip, the better. Wading wearily through limpid conversations, and the pleasant art of leading someone through a conversation wherein all they do is talk about themselves. In some way my job is just to jack off other people’s egos, which, when I’m feeling particularly forlorn, I liken to some form of emotional prostitution, but when I’m feeling casually euphoric about my life I refer to it as some high brow conceptual actressing.
Anyways, I know I won’t be busy tonight, but on the nights that I am busy, I’ll probably spend the entire day biking around from here to there, buying things that I think will make me look pretty, because if I look pretty then maybe someone will want to fuck me. Although the only reason that I’m biking around today is because I have a slight inclination that nobody will be coming over at three in the afternoon to tell me that I’m dirty then fuck some sin back in between my legs. So today is another day when I feel lonely, so today is another day that I’m obsessively checking all text messages and Facebook messages and Twitter interactions, and quickly calculating in my head the amount of social interaction I will have to do with him before it becomes socially acceptable for me to throw my body on his crotch.
I don’t want him to love me, I just want him to fuck me. And fuck me and fuck me and fuck me and fuck me. Although I’m not sure if that’s entirely clear to him, because from what I’ve garnered about how other females interact with other males, the fact that I’m constantly texting him and asking him what he’s up to seems to imply, in his mind, the possibility that I want to date him. But, no, that’s not it, I don’t want to hear about his day or his problems or his friends, and I especially don’t want to hear about the other girls that he’s fucking, because even though, yeah, I’m fucking other people, too, tacit hook up etiquette states that one should never speak of the other people one is hooking up with until the eventual, “Are you seeing other people?” Because up until that point, it’s all just fair game. And I promise I’ll never ask that, because I never want to be his girlfriend, I never want to be his wife, I never want to be his mistress, I only want to be his lover. Sometimes I wonder how he feels about me using him for sex, but as one of my girlfriends once so eloquently put it, “What is he going to say? Oh, she used me for sex, she didn’t take me out to dinner or watch a movie with me, she just fucked me. Boo hoo.”
Some people think it’s a charade. Most people don’t really believe that this extreme emotional paucity can in any way be genuine, and while I admit that at some times it would be nice to have a lover that I could actually love, I’m painfully aware of the fact that a lover I don’t have to love is much more practical. Several of them, actually, because there’s some dark, animalistic urge swelling deep inside me that demands that I get fucked every god damn day of the week. Two or three times day, preferably, and while, yeah, I do need time off occasionally so my body can recover, if I had the time and I never had to work I would probably just lie around all day and watch X-Files and fuck and sleep. But I have to work, so I can’t fuck nearly as often as I’d like to, which I constantly find myself apologizing for, because heaven knows my friends have to deal with the erratic manic neediness that ensues from a chronically unfucked me. But I’m always a chronically unfucked me, so God bless my friends, and a middle finger to all the boys that I’ve been fucking recently because how is it possible that 100% of all the boys I’ve ever dated (or fucked, pick your preferred terminology) always withhold sex from me? Why is that a thing?
So I sigh and I check my text messages again. And I fantasize about getting fucked in the ass. And I fantasize about him coming on my face. And hands on skin, when will it begin, because I’m just itching and I just can’t wait. One of my guy friends once asked me how often I come when I fuck, and I told him, “75%” which, admittedly, was a generous estimation, but if you skew it to, “how often I come when I’m fucking someone that I’m not having a one night stand with and also if I’m not drunk” then 75% is a pretty accurate estimation, even if 68% is slightly more realistic. It was just weird to me to hear a boy ask me that question, because I knew that behind that question was the reality that whatever new girl he was fucking wasn’t really coming, ever. Which immediately made me feel sad, because what kind of girl doesn’t come during fucking? Granted, if he has a small dick, or he comes too fast, or he just has no clue what he’s doing, then it’s just not happening, but if a dude knows how to fuck and you’re still not coming, well then, what are you doing with your life?
Ugh, he still hasn’t texted me. Fuck.
And maybe by now you’re wondering, who is he? Hah, well the answer to that one is easy. He’s anybody. Literally, anybody.