A friend gave me his phone number weeks ago. "Call him. Just call him," she said. I’d stopped dating. It wasn’t the guys. Well, maybe a little. "Look, I’m over ‘relationships’ for the moment. I just want to be by myself for awhile. That’s all." My friend shrugged. "Call him," she said again. I was the youngest of three girls. Growing up, I’d watched my sisters and their boy friends. Clumsy kisses in the barn. Hands groping, pushed away, more groping. I had dreams, murky pictures in my head. And I’d fumbled with myself some nights, unsatisfied, my fumbling increasing my longing. Like cocks were doing now. Oh, I’d had lots of cocks the last few years, big ones, small ones. Cocks that were hair-trigger, and cocks that had to be coaxed. Cocks that loved your basic fuck, and cocks that wanted anything but your basic fuck. And I’d lie in bed afterwards with every one of those cocks (never guys, or men, just cocks), damp, salty, sometimes fumbling in the dark after they started snoring, and I wanted more, less, nothing, everything.
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