That doesn’t mean that’s not his type.
Polished.
Classy.
Expensive.
I can barely afford Elmer’s Glue and construction paper.
My eyes land on a photo of Duke at the Super Bowl. His arms are raised, and he looks tired. Exhausted.
It was last season, and they won; he was MVP.
But.
He doesn’t look happy.
I close my eyes and picture him out on the porch, sun shining on his skin, on his thick biceps.
Cutoff T-shirt.
Holes in his jeans.
When he bit into that cookie and melted chocolate stuck to the corner of his mouth, I wanted to lick it off.
Something had possessed me to tell him the dirtiest, most perverted jokes I knew, and they sure worked.
Pleased, I smile, hunkering down in my bed beneath the covers.
My hand wanders.
I haven’t masturbated in months, and I’m not sure why. I used to do it regularly, but I wasn’t in a relationship anymore, and I missed the sex part of it. When Dan and I broke up (that was his name, Dan), I spent a few weeks masturbating in the morning and again before bed but then suddenly… I no longer desired that anymore and stopped.
I have a drawer full of toys from a sex party Kate had during quarantine, the pink suction toy my absolute favorite. It cost ninety dollars, but it had been worth every penny, the pink gadget sorely neglected but now being fished out of my bedside drawer and greeted as if it were an old friend.
Holding my finger down for a few seconds, it whirs to life.
Thank God.
How bad would it suck if the battery was dead from all this time I hadn’t charged it?
I lift my hips to push down my sleep shorts; the skimpy fabric is blue and covered in tiny, fluffy sheep.
Holding the pink toy, my finger taps the UP button.
Test it between my legs.
Oh shit, that feels good; as good as I remember it, the sensation hitting me almost immediately.
Tap.
Tap.
More suction.
Faster.
Harder.