One weekend when I was 14, I was at a friends birthday party. By the time Friday came I was literally chomping at the bit to put my new skills to use. I hyperventilated, tears and spit running down my faces as I gazed in horror at the device that had probably almost killed me. The thickness of the dildo compressed my trachea and made breathing difficult. I was moments from ecstasy. Now she returned the indifference. Sometimes I would spend entire weekends locked in my house sucking my own nipples and worshiping my plastic master. About five minutes down the road the my post-orgasmic fugue had passed, and I no longer felt like a dirty girl, just a messy one. There were a handful of texts, mostly superficial and easily ignored. When you spend so long telling yourself you are a better person than the people around you, the humiliation of admitting defeat is intolerable. This was no longer a pussy orgasm.
