With Sympathy

I've officially been 27 for 25 hours. I'm old enough to get botox, but I'm not old enough to have "adult" money to actually get botox. I resign myself to buying the nicest sunscreen to stay looking this good. I've lived the last week as a free man, waking up whenever and hopping on the city's limousine to catch a ride. North Hollywood station is my usual stop. Days are spent fantasizing and nights are for living out the fantasy. I have a 100ft ethernet cable running from downstairs to upstairs. Every place I've laid my head has doubled as the internet's brothel. As far as I stray, I always come back. It's true, I'm an attention whore, and I wholeheartedly missed my gooners.

I was wearing a Leg Avenue out-of-the-box outfit probably dated from the 90s. It was black lace, it barely fit, my tits were spilling out, but atleast my bush was kind of covered. It had little red bows all around the tits and crotch. The business of my mullet is long grown out and sticks straight up in an endearing skater boy way; the party is what everyone comes for though. The party gives a soothing sense of femininity in my otherwise slutty demeanor. Some say it's also really good for pulling, and I would be happy to oblige.

I log on, and I'm staring at myself in my webcam. 'With Sympathy' is playing loud enough to drown out the eventual sounds of fucking. I've been saying my pussy is esoteric for months now, because my sexual sneaking suspicions are usually correct. I set the music intentionally to have an intense experience. My pussy told me this was it. What I've been waiting years for, and it all started with some cash, and a horny dream. I was only 23 years old, hopping off charged cam shows that left me breathless in a way that I needed to put some clothes on and stand in my East Hollywood apartment's gated parking and smoke a cigarette and just... think. What even is my sexuality? Am I a lesbian even? My wired earbuds blared "Work for Love" and the languid Los Angeles breeze blew at my Frederick's of Hollywood robe.

I'm not speaking any words aloud to you, but it feels like I'm screaming over this song. I imagine we are at Precinct at some goth night the cast of Dragula is at. I'm dancing with you like the elephant in the room isn't standing right next to me. Do I make a move? Grab your hand and lean in for a kiss? We really should talk this out, but I'm afraid to choke on my words. My autistic ass honestly can't think over this music. I hit my stiiizy and fly five miles high. This is more of a nervous tick than anything, being high isn't helping this situation in the slightest. I read off your name, and it feel's like we're having a lover's quarrel on live television. I drag you by the hand to the nearest women's restroom stall and push you in by the collar. I want you alone.

She takes me out to buy me the biggest, blackest leather collar. I think about going to Petsmart and buying a tag that says "If lost please return to [her name]". I barked like a dog for her. I didn't even have to try to get into character, I already know my place--kissing her sweet feet and lapping at her pussy. She leaves the room, and even in my obedient kneeling, my gaze follows her, eyeing her like a hapless dog. She comes back with her own gaze looking right through me, studded riding crop in her hand. Impressions of her left on my ass. The pictures say everything you need to know--she owns me <3

"Does daddy forgive his babygirl???" I imagine you whimpered. "I loved you to the lines of lies you told when I asked [their] name," I don't know does Daddy forgive you? Daddy really doesn't like when his babygirl misbehaves. My pussy twitched at the sound of your cold hard cash. I spent 4 years hoping you would see how much I'm worth and play along. 50 dollars my money, 100 yours. For someone who doesn't make a living wage from this work, that is actually a lot of money but also 50 dollars could make me do a lot. "Did you ever think to notice me when you wasn't home?" Admittedly, we are probably psychically linked, I'm thinking about you when you're thinking about me, and vice versa. My cards told me if you thought of me it was in some form of secrecy and regret. I was surprised, but my babygirl offers such great apologies. "Are you turned on???" feels like my ex-girlfriend's "Are you mad at me???" after she did something so obviously hurtful. Daddy is amused if anything--by his babygirl desperate to be in his good graces. Others filter into my room, and I'm caught between being authentic with you and warmly greeting those who enter. I imagine you could see in that moment that I am in fact good at my job. I always wanted to be an actor, but my parents could never afford to take me to auditions.

She gives me her classic "don't fear the reaper," look, and says to me "Don't you ever betray me." She reinforces her command with her hands around my neck. I can't help but offer the biggest grin, like I'll use my last breath to beg for more. I'm tied by the wrists by blue rope, cuffed on top of that, and I walk "dick" between my legs to her childhood bedroom. My pussy throbs as I walk down the long hallway, the joint I smoked made the edible I took hit, my head spun in a daze of pleasure. She coaxed me to the edge of her bed, where more than her gaze penetrated me. More than my puppy dog persona, I howled for her as I writhed in pleasure. I would have tried to grasp the sheets, but I was a little tied up...

The evening of my birthday left me worked up and wistful. Combining both these memories into one ultimate fuck fest in my head. I was wearing the 'With Sympathy' t-shirt from the show that happened just last week, it was a birthday present. It's 1am the day after my birthday. I'm wearing a denim mini skirt and underneath, my new packer bulges out my underwear. Some have said the street I live on is precarious, but that doesn't stop me from roaming outside in the wee hours of the morning. I'm smoking a joint and listening to music. I know I'll start this essay when I get back in. The cannabis primes my creative juices. I'm about to write the essay of the ages.