I'm a bad girl, sort of, and chronicling my escapades helps me to manage my appetite for the forbidden. Caleb has been my steady hook-up lately. He's the baker at my local market and I invite him over on those Friday nights when I can't take masturbating solo anymore, the relationship based on the doughy stretch of my imagination connecting Caleb's burly, out of shape body, to Seth Rogen, although I would more prefer the simmering, bad boy qualities of someone like Jonathan Rhys Meyers, what woman wouldn't want to open her thighs for him, especially if he were dressed in his brooding, faux, Tudor finery, but a woman like me will never meet a man like him. Here I pause to sigh with star-crossed eyes.
I'm 33 years-old, faithfully attend the annual Comic Con, collect Wonder Woman and Green Lantern comics, have read every Harry Potter, Twilight, and Hunger Games book twice, and own a vibrator nicknamed Jacob. Yes, I so wanted Jacob to win Bella in the end. I am that kind of woman. I often obsess on the promise of true love and wanton sex, because in my mind you can't have one without the other, fuck Edward, fuck something, but I will not fucking compromise. I am a late stage Gen Xer, verging on a Y, live independently with my comic book collection and a few literary classics that I refuse to read electronically. My love of men doesn't mean to say that if a hot girl approached me, and, if I were just a little high, well maybe we might have some fun, but then again, if Jacob were to appear, or Jonathan Rhys Meyers, or Professor Snape, I'd do any one of them, or all three at once, so you can see what kind lust lies hidden within.
Most men are threatened by my sexual honesty, as if they were the only ones who could like pornography, which is mostly a bore because it's typically made by them, but there are certain videos that make my clit extend, try Googling Anna Spann or Candida Royalle, then switch your vibrator on. I also recommend that every eligible man hit up Netflix for Lena Dunham's "Girls", a valuable insight into the realpolitik of a new generation's feminine mystique. Only the looming threat of an STD restrains my lust, which poor Lena as Hannah found she had in season one, sorry, forgot to issue a spoiler alert.
I so do not trust a few millimeters of latex to protect me from Human Papillomavirus or any of the many Chlamydia strains, but must admit I love to articulate their rhythmic names. That's the reason for safe, doughy, Caleb. I mean, really, people hook-up so often these days, it's hard to trust someone new. That's why I never let Caleb inside me. His job is to manipulate Jacob, my ever-faithful, vibratory companion, and to lick my clit to moderate, little orgasms that I reward with quick hand jobs. His squat curved member matches his Buddha shape and never lasts more than a minute or two. I find more pleasure in Caleb's gifts of day-old bread and pastries, no small savings for a single girl living on Chicago's Northside, but an ever present danger to the size and shape of my Irish thighs. I mean, it takes me a year to earn what Lena Dunham probably makes in a week, and I'm guessing that she doesn't have thousands of dollars in lingering college debt.
At least I have fifty fewer pounds than Lena and shoulder-length, natural strawberry-blonde hair, the kind you would expect a woman named Molly to have, along with the pale pink, freckled Irish skin that burns beet red in the summer and never tans. I'm sure that if I were to habituate River North bars or cruise the Viagra Triangle of Rush, Division, and State, I could have plenty of men. I would only have to dress in something tight, revealing a bit of cleavage, but I am better than that. That's how my old friend, Monica, went down, to a fast talking options trader, who had a wife, paunchy stomach, and spray-tan orange hue, who left the wife for her, but kept the paunch and tan. Monica switched from Goth to that Housewives' of New Jersey
I'm 33 years-old, faithfully attend the annual Comic Con, collect Wonder Woman and Green Lantern comics, have read every Harry Potter, Twilight, and Hunger Games book twice, and own a vibrator nicknamed Jacob. Yes, I so wanted Jacob to win Bella in the end. I am that kind of woman. I often obsess on the promise of true love and wanton sex, because in my mind you can't have one without the other, fuck Edward, fuck something, but I will not fucking compromise. I am a late stage Gen Xer, verging on a Y, live independently with my comic book collection and a few literary classics that I refuse to read electronically. My love of men doesn't mean to say that if a hot girl approached me, and, if I were just a little high, well maybe we might have some fun, but then again, if Jacob were to appear, or Jonathan Rhys Meyers, or Professor Snape, I'd do any one of them, or all three at once, so you can see what kind lust lies hidden within.
Most men are threatened by my sexual honesty, as if they were the only ones who could like pornography, which is mostly a bore because it's typically made by them, but there are certain videos that make my clit extend, try Googling Anna Spann or Candida Royalle, then switch your vibrator on. I also recommend that every eligible man hit up Netflix for Lena Dunham's "Girls", a valuable insight into the realpolitik of a new generation's feminine mystique. Only the looming threat of an STD restrains my lust, which poor Lena as Hannah found she had in season one, sorry, forgot to issue a spoiler alert.
I so do not trust a few millimeters of latex to protect me from Human Papillomavirus or any of the many Chlamydia strains, but must admit I love to articulate their rhythmic names. That's the reason for safe, doughy, Caleb. I mean, really, people hook-up so often these days, it's hard to trust someone new. That's why I never let Caleb inside me. His job is to manipulate Jacob, my ever-faithful, vibratory companion, and to lick my clit to moderate, little orgasms that I reward with quick hand jobs. His squat curved member matches his Buddha shape and never lasts more than a minute or two. I find more pleasure in Caleb's gifts of day-old bread and pastries, no small savings for a single girl living on Chicago's Northside, but an ever present danger to the size and shape of my Irish thighs. I mean, it takes me a year to earn what Lena Dunham probably makes in a week, and I'm guessing that she doesn't have thousands of dollars in lingering college debt.
At least I have fifty fewer pounds than Lena and shoulder-length, natural strawberry-blonde hair, the kind you would expect a woman named Molly to have, along with the pale pink, freckled Irish skin that burns beet red in the summer and never tans. I'm sure that if I were to habituate River North bars or cruise the Viagra Triangle of Rush, Division, and State, I could have plenty of men. I would only have to dress in something tight, revealing a bit of cleavage, but I am better than that. That's how my old friend, Monica, went down, to a fast talking options trader, who had a wife, paunchy stomach, and spray-tan orange hue, who left the wife for her, but kept the paunch and tan. Monica switched from Goth to that Housewives' of New Jersey
Similar Books
