Congratulations Fingerbang Sally!

You've got a way of making men do what you want.  You're a looker, a real great piece of eye candy.  It's a burden for you.  Every time you walk into a room, each time you board a bus or a train, you just feel the force of men's ejaculatory fantasies coming at you all at once in a wave.  Perhaps that's why you decided, early on in your life, when you were not yet a woman, that you'd only give it up to a man you knew for a fact was in love with you.

And how can one determine if one is truly in love with a man?  One can be repeatedly brought to orgasm by said man through digital or oral stimulation.

The prevalence of herpes makes receiving oral stimulation a pretty big gesture of trust, so you've basically been getting guys to finger you for about seven years at this point.  But now you're reaching your mid-twenties, you're starting to get your shit together and you've begun to wonder if you're not missing out on something by not having sex.  So you've been hitting the internet pretty hard and, after some pretty heavy chatting, you've found a guy you like quite a bit.  He's not the most handsome man you've ever gone out with, but he certainly seems to be the nicest.

You've been out on six dates with him so far.  After the first date, you kissed him on the cheek.  After the second, you kissed him on the mouth.  After the third, you let him inside your apartment, where you let him feel your boobs until you got tired and kicked him out.  After the fourth, fingerbang.  Fifth, fingerbang.  Sixth, fingerbang.

You get the idea.

You haven't touched him in return at all.  He hasn't asked, and you've imagined that he's the sort of person who enjoys getting other people off, the kind of person you've always dreamed of.  You've thought about letting him go down on you tonight, as a sort of special treat, as a test to see if he's the one.  After dinner you'll bring him home.  You'll lead him to your room with passionate kisses, leaving glasses of red wine full, untouched on the table.  You'll bring him into your bed, unzip your pants and tell him:

"I'm ready."

He'll nod, smile and go to work.  Fifteen minutes later you'll be blinking out stars from your eyes, smiling, thanking him.  When he moves to kiss you, smell of your sex still on his lips, you'll put up your hand, push him away.

He'll look flustered.  He'll stand up, erection straining at the fabric of his jeans.  You'll look him over and lick your lips, but he won't be looking at you.  He'll be staring at the ceiling, hands up on his face.

"I can't," he'll be murmuring.  "Not again."

You'll look up at him, puzzled.  "What?" you'll ask.

"I can't just be strung along again."

He'll burst out of your apartment, weeping, running back to his car.  You'll realize, as you lay on your back in post-orgasmic bliss, and muse on his profile.  You'll recall, for a moment, a bit about being strung along in relationships in the past, about being used and tossed away.  The memory, this new understanding, will cut through your pleasant haze.  It'll wince, sniffing around your consciousness.

You'll reach for your phone, wrist still slip and flippery.  When you get a hold of it you'll have heard his car depart already.  It'll take you five minutes to text to him.

Please come back.  I'd like to go down on you.

Hope he comes back.

Congratulations Fingerbang Sally!