Use her name
Remember: she laughed. Notatyou;withyou.
Don’t mention the compatibility score (OBVIOUSLY)
I’d been staring at the list so long that every item started to blur together, and I was suddenly overcome with a restless sort of energy.
I felt wired and exhausted at the same time, my mind spinning while my muscles begged for release.
I knew what I needed. What I’d trained myself to do when my brain wouldn’t shut off, and sleep was impossible.
I left my office and climbed the stairs to my bedroom, my footsteps echoing in the empty house.
My closet was a testament to my need for order. My shirts and sweaters were organized by color, my shoes lined up in precise rows. At the back was an unmarked black box.
I pulled it out and carried it to my bed.
For a moment, I just stared at it, my hands resting on the sealed top. Sixteen years. That’s how long it had been since I’d been with another person. Sixteen years of telling myself I didn’t need intimacy, that I was fine alone, that sex had never been my strong suit anyway, so why bother pursuing it?
But I’d pursued it—obsessively. Just not with actual people.
I opened the box to reveal cock rings of varying materials—silicone, metal, and ones that vibrated. A set of clamps I’d bought after reading that nipple stimulation could intensify orgasms by up to 40 percent in some men. Two prostate massagers of different sizes, one with a remote control. A collection of lubes, each chosen for its specific properties—duration, sensation, and cleanup.
And there, in the upper right corner, wrapped in a microfiber cloth: my Fleshlight.
I pulled it out, clinical and absurd and nothing like actual human anatomy.
But God, it felt incredible.
I’d bought it five years ago after reading a detailed review that promised “the closest simulation to real intercourse available on the market.” I’d spent weeks researching before purchasing, of course. Comparing models, reading user testimonials, and analyzing the technical specifications of different internal textures.
Because that’s what I did. I researched, and I optimized. I turned everything into a project I could master through study and practice.
Even this.
Especiallythis.
I set the toy on my nightstand and returned to the box for the lubricant—the water-based one, long-lasting yet easy to clean up. Then I stripped off my clothes, folding them out of habit and setting them on the chair by the window.
I climbed onto the bed, propping myself up on pillows against my headboard until I was at an angle I’d learned worked best, my cock already half-hard just from anticipation. From the Pavlovian response my body had learned over hundreds of these sessions.
But tonight felt different.
Tonight, for the first time in years, I had someone specific to think about.
Someone who wasn’t just a vague amalgamation of attractive features or a fantasy constructed from porn I’d watched. Someone real. Someone with an off-center smile and eyes that could wreck me.
