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