...Wings of Pastrami (part 3)

I didn’t hear from Aaron for 5 days. I send one super-ultra-casual text. Crickets. Five days of me torturing myself wondering what egregious sin I’d committed. I wasn’t pretty enough. I wasn’t a tenth of my online, scintillating persona. I’d stumbled into a patch of horrifically bad lighting. He must’ve known the moment he saw me whether or not he was interested. Even if he only wanted me for blow jobs, why bother with the hand-holding bullshit? Why kiss the wits out of me?

After 5 days of self-doubt, zero self-esteem, and the endless taunting of my inner critic, I get a text from him saying he’d been down with the flu and had been feeling like death. The moment of pure happiness I get when I see his message is downright nauseating. My sad, lopsided world tilts back on its axis and I can have a bit of peace from the nasty voices in my head. Over the course of the next week I send two more super-ultra-casual texts inquiring after his health; my third text is an exasperated one.

Me: feel free to continue to kiss me off, just do me a favor and let me know u didn't die from the flu. Just for my peace of mind.

Nothing. Nada. Niente.

Another week of denigrating every aspect of myself from head to toe, inside and out. The only part that remains in high confidence is my oral skills. I know those are en pointe without a doubt. I begin to spin a fantasy in my mind… I dangle the coveted blow job in front of him and he can’t refuse. This time when we meet there will be no hand holding, no goddamned kissing. I’ll work my magic on his cock and after I swallow all he has to give and he lies back to collect his wits, I’ll lean close and whisper, “Now you’re just like everyone else.”

“What do you mean”, he’ll ask.

“Despite all the hand holding and kissing, after all your claims of being a gentleman, you’re just the latest dick to get sucked off in my car.”

BOOM. And that’s how this Kitty rolls. Now he’s just one of the masses; nothing special here, ladies and gents.

That’s not exactly how it went down (as it were). I texted him:

me: mobile bj calling…

him: erect and trembling with excitement

He texts this 7 HOURS AFTER MY MESSAGE. Asshole.

me: u snooze u lose, butthead

And I make a happy discovery: I don’t have to actually blow him to bring him down a peg. His responding to my text already makes him no different than all the other guys panting after my blow jobs. I don’t get to rub his nose in it but hey, you can’t have everything. Yes, I’m angry. At him for treating me like a person instead of a cumslut. For getting my hopes up although I fought it every step of the way. For inadvertently tapping into the secret desires I’ve worked so hard to keep contained.

But I break my own rules (again) about texting first. I decide to give him one last chance to be a bj buddy. Perhaps I’ll get him addicted to my mouth. Play to your strengths, girl, play to your strengths...