My legs are tired from walking and fucking. It’s been a long week.
I figured out what the internet was for from the get go. Trying to hide the high-pitched whirring of the modem calling in to the message boards. Typing out things I had never done and wouldn’t do for a long time yet. Playing into fantasies. I would try to figure them out. I would use rich detail. I would pick up hints from their responses, and craft a story, or at least a compelling...
some of this is real and some of it is not sometimes I tell the truth, or reference it, or embellish it, or banish it all together sometimes a person is a friend or a collage or a figment or a dream or an invention sometimes I tell the truth and sometimes I lie sometimes the truth is a lie sometimes the lie is that it’s the truth
He is the most notorious ladiesman I have ever known. Or met. Or heard of in real life. A man I haven’t (yet) fucked—his choice more than mine. I take it as a compliment.
All day it’s been growing inside me. A small uneasy place. An empty thing. A craving. Needing sex, or fucking, or touching, or someone to hold me. I’m not sure. I’m finding this feeling hard to pin down, hard to name, hard to define, hard to explain and address. I know it’s about sex though. About me missing it and wanting it. About bodies and sounds and scents and eyes. A...
We were on the bed making a mess out of the pile of coats. I told him my friends were expecting me and I had to go. He said I should just come home with him instead. With you, or with both of you? Do you have executive powers here or should you check with her first? He admitted that we should check with her, but he said she liked dominant girls and that if I really wanted to come home with them I...