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” “Thank you. Be more confident Greg. I know you’re a couple of years younger than me, but girls like a man to be a man. Yeah?” “Yes. Sorry, I just go to pieces around you.” “OK I’ll let you off,” I said, rolling my eyes. I thought about the time he was here before in my bedroom. I knew how big he was and I quite liked his shyness in one way, but I didn’t fancy having him cum after a second again. I gave him the coffee and then stroked his arm. He was lean and sinewy. His muscles were so firm. He looked down into my eyes as I lifted his T shirt and patted his toned stomach. If only he could last I would have loved to have that huge weapon inside my tight little pussy. He started to breath deeply as my hands traced around his waist. His jeans were low slung and I could see the top of his male V. He really was fit. “I like the way you touch me Danielle.” “I bet you do.” He put his hand out and touched my towel. “Hey, wait till you’re invited Greg.” “Sorry!” He said, as his hand shot. But naturally even she disappeared from my life just as easily as the rest, especially when the love of my life told me he fantasized about her. I could never see her the same way as before, after picturing him entering her, even if it was his sick daydream. Sometimes I pick up the box, the one we all have somewhere hidden in our homes or garages or storage units. The one with the dried flowers, cards, letters, mixed tapes, stuffed animals, dirty photos, anything he or she might have left behind. I have letters that I read. Text and email transcripts. Some horrible poetry. I bring this box out when I need to cry and can’t, but now it doesn’t work for me anymore. I read the letters, wonder if their wives have ever seen some of the shit I’ve written, and try like hell to cry or feel or anything. And I can’t. I picture the sex. I picture the cocks. And I can’t feel. I can’t cry. Not until I remember that I wasn’t good enough for a single one, and every one of them left me. And this.
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