REALITY DRONE
I awakened the next day anticipating the weekend to come. They had taken my
name and number, made an appointment for me at a local doctor for the next week,
which was associated with them somehow. I didn't want to think about that too
much. Too big a mind-blower. I wouldn't want to be tortured by someone that
knew as much about the human body as a doctor. They had given me a copy of the
contract to sign, and I felt a shiver of anticipation. Half dread, half-lust.
My life was already changing. Taking on a new erotic luster.
I knew I needed to explore this side of myself, and I considered myself pretty
lucky to have found Jon and Traci so easily. Many were not as lucky. They
spent their lives denying the reality of their lusts. Denying themselves and
suffering needlessly. I didn't feel like I wanted to do that. I would rather
face myself straight on than attempt an end-run around my psyche. You can never
escape yourself anyways. You are there in the mirror everyday.
I signed the contract that night, using big bold strokes from my favorite pen.
The flamboyant letters jumping out of the pages at me. I started filling my
journal with the flashes of lusty heat I was feeling in ever-increasing
increments. It felt good.
It felt real good.
To say that work sucked that week would have been putting it mildly. It is very
hard to concentrate on facts, and figures, when you're thinking about your
sexual fate. I did think about it, almost every minute. I played by Jon's
rules but I regretted it. Yes, again, almost every minute. Usually just about
the time my thoughts would wander for the fortieth time in as many minutes, when
I wondered if I would need a spatula to stand up from my chair. Something to
break the suction with. Every maddening, tormented second, I regretted being a
`good girl.'
All I thought of was sex. Not the regular kind, no that would be too easy to
dismiss. The kind of sex that I liked was what I thought about. Every man I
saw was a fantasy. Every woman a sex object. Questions floated in lazy erotic
rhythm through my fevered thoughts. How do these nameless strangers taste?
What kind of orgasms do they have? Do they moan, or cry out? Could I make them
come? Dangerous thoughts, not so easily dismissed from the rapidly increasing
pulse of desire that was moving them to the front of my mind.
I was wet and horny, all week long. I filled my journal with these wandering
thoughts. Fantasies that haunted my imagination all day long at the very edge
of cognizant thought. My world became an erotic playground.
There was this one particular little number that wandered quietly into my brain
that I had to repeatedly push away. It's quite a trip.
