pinsandneedles
Virgin
- Joined
- Nov 17, 2000
- Posts
- 7
The day was cold, rainy, and matched my mood perfectly. I was glad I called the office and told them I was feeling a bit under the weather and chose to work from home. No need to go out on a day like this.
Actually, my foul mood was the product of sheer sexual frustration. At 35, I was sure that I was the state's oldest living virgin. I had been with a woman for a very long time. When that relationship ended, I took time to look inward and realized that didn't want another woman as a lover - I wanted a man. The problem was that I was not meeting the right men - certianly no one that I wanted to be my first. Maybe I was too picky, too unsure of myself, too . . . .too . . . . who's to know.
So I sat in my apartment trying to concentrate on the paperwork in front of me - and trying not to think of the needs of my body - the need for touch that had become constant, the need for passion that would not leave, the need for release that no amount of masturbation could cure.
I hopped on-line to see if I had any mail - one to read. I didn't recognize the address, but opened it anyway.
"Meet me at the coffee shop at 8 tonight."
I replied to the writer - "You need to check the address - I think you made a mistake."
I was surprised to see a reply later in the day. "No mistake. See you at 8."
Actually, my foul mood was the product of sheer sexual frustration. At 35, I was sure that I was the state's oldest living virgin. I had been with a woman for a very long time. When that relationship ended, I took time to look inward and realized that didn't want another woman as a lover - I wanted a man. The problem was that I was not meeting the right men - certianly no one that I wanted to be my first. Maybe I was too picky, too unsure of myself, too . . . .too . . . . who's to know.
So I sat in my apartment trying to concentrate on the paperwork in front of me - and trying not to think of the needs of my body - the need for touch that had become constant, the need for passion that would not leave, the need for release that no amount of masturbation could cure.
I hopped on-line to see if I had any mail - one to read. I didn't recognize the address, but opened it anyway.
"Meet me at the coffee shop at 8 tonight."
I replied to the writer - "You need to check the address - I think you made a mistake."
I was surprised to see a reply later in the day. "No mistake. See you at 8."