I saw Daniel. He’d emailed me to say he hadn’t heard from me, and had missed me. … He missed me! What could I say? He was right. I never write him first – all part of either a)my manipulative plot to have the upper hand b)my terrible fear that repeated exposure to me and my emails will send him running in the other direction. But, he was right; I never write first.
Sorry, I wrote back. I just don’t want you to get bored. True, that.
That night at his place he showed me his Christmas presents; one of them was a new scanner. He took a picture of me, and then brought out a packet of photos.
“Look at these,” he said, and pulled out a packet. “These are from Halloween,” Daniel added, unnecessarily, as he showed me a picture of himself dressed as the devil, wearing a pinstripe suit and silly red horns. Cute. Wait: on Halloween, he was with Robin…
And there, without any subterfuge on my part, was her photo. “That’s my friend Robin,” he offered.
She was wearing black lipstick and not smiling, so I couldn’t make a thorough evaluation. But, she was wearing a laced up bustier (leather, I thought) and from my anxious study of her picture it seemed to me that … she was not thinner than me. She had chin length blond curls, which I thought might be dyed. She looked perfectly normal, not counting the bustier and black lipstick. Not beautiful. Thank you, God, I thought.
“What do you mean, you don’t want me to get bored?!” Daniel laughed as we tumbled around on his bed. My mouth roved all over his skin. “You know I wouldn’t get bored.”
I shrugged (coyly?). ‘I just would always rather you be pleased to hear from me than get too many emails from me and think, ‘Oh, God, not her again.”
“I would never think that!”
I couldn’t wait to have him inside me; it’d been more than a week. When I slid onto his cock, I said as much. “That’s a long time,” I breathed.
And as I rocked up and down his dick it was such a relief, his body. Like, even though we’ve only been dating or having sex since October, he knows what to say to me (ahem, my name is good, as is implying I’m a slut), and our pelvic bones fit together just so, and I can stretch my legs in just the way I need to around his thighs. Oh, Daniel.
After I came he took a long time, as he usually does, fucking me on my back, with both my legs around his neck, and then just one, so he entered me from an angle. Then he put me on my stomach. When he fucked me I could feel his balls slap against my ass, and I pushed my ass up against him, jiggling it like I know he likes.
Afterwards we were lounging on his bed and he asked, “How big are your breasts?”
I raised my eyebrows at him. “I’m a B. I think,” I added, cause apparently the majority of women in the US wear the wrong bra size. Maybe I’m really a C! Probably not, though.
“And how tall are you?” I told him. “I’m asking because I have this friend in California,” he explained. Ah, the girl who’s had her tubes tied and likes vintage clothes! The girl Daniel has a crush on! “And she’s 5’2”, and is a 32GG.”
“What?!” I said. “Wow.”
“Yeah, I’m just wondering…”
“A 32GG?” I repeated. “This I’ve got to see. Daniel, show me her profile!”
So he did, and without a great deal of effort on my part, I’ve now seen two of my, uh, rivals.
So, big chested girl: from her photos, her enormous tits are not that obvious, though it’s clear she’s got big breasts… but who would actually think, Oh, yeah, there’s a 32GG? I was dismayed to see that she had red hair. The kind of boys I like always seem to have a weakness for redheads. It’s like shorthand for being pre-Raphaelite, and lithe and elegant and artistic. What I would like to be, but am not! Big Chested Girl was decked out in an elaborate strapless gown with heart shaped neckline, a basque waist, flared satin skirt, and a bustle, too, I think. Very flattering to the 32GGs, yes. And very flattering, period, in the other-worldly red-headed way she clearly knew how to work. She was sort of pretty. OK, she was pretty. But again, not thinner! Not fat, but it was a slight sop to my ego. Because although I’m perfectly happy with my 34B (or possibly C) boobs, I am well aware that Daniel is most decidedly a breast man. He must be salivating over Big Chested, Vintage Costumed Red Haired Girl. Fey, straight-haired, tied-tubes dream girl. Hmm.
The really bad part is that Daniel showed me her profile on the personals web site, and, as I’ve said before, I have a very good memory for names: I remembered her handle. I am tempted to look her profile up. But, as I tell myself, that way madness lies. I don’t want to be a stalker, after all. Thus far I’ve managed to restrain myself. Because really, this is not information I want. Nothing I can discover about her will be pleasing to me. And, oh, yeah: it’s none of my business. That too.