Yeah got a chick lined up for tomorrow night, sure need to get my rocks off for real in a warm sweet wet cunt, my cock is red and aching from all the jacking off I been doing recently. Couldn't help it I just got addicted to it this last week, there's this girl, no I've not met her, she's like another writer, in Europe somewhere and man she writes some hot stuff.
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"I'm out on a date tonight," I tell my flatmate, "You know with Martin? The writer guy?" I am kind of in awe of him he's published a book and he runs a magazine, how cool is that? I'd love to write a novel you know, they say everyone's got a novel inside them and I want the world to see mine, see how creative and cool I can be!
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Oh I love hearing from my favourite correspondant; right about now he should be checking out the mails I sent to him last time, asking in my faux naive way to tell me about how it feels when a guy is ready to come. Time for another e-mail conversation which will end up with us both sticky and wet and satiated. I love that he jacks it off at his work for me. I even sent him some pictures.
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Thing is, we have these conversations and they make me so fucking horny, and cos there's like a time difference she's playing with herself at home and I'm in the fucking cubicle and every day this week I had to get up and shuffle to the mens room to jack one out quickly but when I get home she's gone to bed but I can read the mails over again and again and I feel so fucking horny all the time at the moment. So it'll do me good to get out there in the real world with, um, yeah Trish.
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"We're gonna meet up at that new bar, you know, we all talked about it last week? Apparently it's only a couple of blocks away from his apartment..." I want to tell her not to wait up but he might not take me back there. I'd like him to, it would be pretty cool to introduce him to people as My Boyfriend, The Writer. I'm sure I could be creative, I mean my brother has a blog so it must run in the family. I could be his muse!
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I know I told him it had to be virtual only. I think I said my head was pretty messed up with an ex and hinted that things were messy in real life. I thought if it was only virtual, only make believe then I wouldn't be prone to all the worry, the neediness, the wondering if I had done something wrong when the beam of attention is not on me. And writer guy did oblige with the attention, I could not complain about that.
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It is loud in the bar, one of Andy's mates runs it and Andy had a spare couple of VIP tickets which is bound to impress, isn't it. We drink little bitty fizzy cocktails in a raised area with squishy black leather sofas. Trish is cute but a bit enthusiastic puppy. The noise means conversation is difficult but she keeps at it, along with peeking up at me in a come and get it way. Which is good. I'm fucking dying to grab a hold of her and her all american sweetheart tits. Push her down onto the sofa.
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Wow, we sit in the VIP area and the bartender brings Champagne Charlies. This is what it will be like all the time when he gets famous! Well I will smarten his clothes up a bit, it's alright to look boho and geeky when you're just starting to get known, but nothing says success like a well dressed guy, you know? I'm so glad I put this dress on, it makes me look sweet and sophisticated at the same time. He isn't saying much, but he's enigmatic like that.
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But when he told me he was going out with some chick tonight I felt a stupid pain. I know it's really nothing to do with him and all to do with the ex, but I still felt it. The pain of being left behind, the self-disgust at being taken again and again for a cheap fuck to be kept apart from a person's real life. I'd been kept apart from his real life containing his marriage that was so fucking sacred that I was the third person he'd cheated with in less than a year. Hmm, and as for writer guy, well I should be rational.
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Gotta get out of here, I got her a load of them cocktails and she's sure enthusiastic now, couldn't manage more than three or four myself, too sweet and fizzy. Cute dress she's got on, white and sort of lacy but more like embroidery, pretty, and fucking love the way it rode up those thighs the more she talked and drank those cocktails down. "Hey, lets grab some fresh air and starry night," I tell her, and hand her up all gentleman like. She wobbles a bit on her heels and clings on my arm.
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He does like me, people are looking at us I bet they think we look really good together. Oops, little wobble there! Coffee at his place is such a good idea. We'll sleep in the same bed, and kiss and cuddle and stuff but nothing full on until I'm sure he likes me in the morning. I am a little tipsy and he can read me his poems while I fall asleep and he can stroke my hair and in the morning we'll have more coffee and the sun will shine and he'll tell me he thinks he loves me.
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I should be rational about him going on a date but I am not. He doesn't know that I do know him in real life and the reason I insist on it being virtual is well, complicated. He thinks I am some girl in Berlin that he would never meet. I love it that he thinks I am a girl, and that we can talk and meet mind to mind even though I am starting to suspect that he's only interested in the fucking talk, not in me, or any personality behind the words. If I was a girl waiting on the end of the line for him I guess I would be disappointed.
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Fuck this isn't going too well, I got her back to the flat and the bedroom fine even through all her "baby we'll do this when..." and "baby when you are so famous..." stuff. And she did look so hot laid out on the bed in that white dress and the long legs but when I crawled up on the bed behind her and kissed her neck and rubbed my hand along those legs she crossed them and my cock is not even properly hard she's just too much of a good girl. I leave her on the bed to sleep while I grab a beer, and I can't help it, I turn the computer on to see if Berlin girl has sent me anything new and if not I can read one of the old conversations and jack off and the night won't be a total failure.
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His flat wasn't that nice really. A bit small and cramped. And instant coffee, how cheap was that! And he had been a bit presumptuous, taking the coffee straight through to the bedroom but then the main living area wasn't really much more than a sofa, a dining table and a tv in the corner. Some bookshelves, yeah. But he got more presumptuous, sliding his hands between my legs as I lay sleepily on the bed, so I wriggled them closed and pretended to fall asleep because I didn't want to fuck him there and then, suddenly wondering what if he didn't get to be famous?
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I needed a distraction, I turned on my computer even though I knew writer guy was out on his date, but it would pass the time. I called my sister for a chat, even if she is a bubble-headed gossip she can be fun in small doses, but her flatmate tells me she is out on a date. With Martin, you know, the writer guy?
Fuck, fuckfuck, fuck fucking fuck.
How could she have got to him?
And then a mail comes in from him, "Are you there Berlin Girl?"
with apologies to "writer guy" for taking something out of context as inspiration ;)
published at new wave vomit here
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