She sits across from me.
She wears yoga pants and a tank top.
She’s 25, maybe 30, brunette.
No wedding ring.
She writes, almost frantically, in a notebook. (Lists, it looks like.)
She has a slightly manic look in her eyes.
Where is she going?
Where is she coming from?
Does she live alone?
When I was younger, it used to titillate me, thrill me, to imagine that everyone (well, almost everyone) has sex.
Though she’s hot – fit, muscular, slim, but still curvy – there’s something asexual about her. I don’t imagine she does have much sex. Her mania looks a little – off-putting.
On the other hand, she loves to get herself off.
She has a shelf of toys, and she’s compulsive about them. She has rituals and routines. But for her, the process is very physical. It’s all about vibration, penetration. Very little of the stimulation that gets her off is in her head – it’s all between her legs.
Her head is off-limits to her.