I have a beautiful rosebud. It's pink and puckered and perfectly rounded, a tender ring of flesh nestled softly between my smooth asscheeks. My self-lust is so strong, sometimes it masquerades as constipation; I can feel it there, hard and aching. I stand with my back to the mirror and look over my bare shoulder. I like watching the hole twitch and pulse with pleasure. I inhale my odor, warm and pungent. The strawberry lube wears away, mingling with my own sweet juices. I am sxeually attracted to myself, to my asshole and its odor, the way I clench and itch. Usually, nothing turns me on like the sight of my gorgeous asshole peeping out from between those creamy cheeks; amazingly, however, that alone can't always do it for me. On these (extremely) rare occasions, I conjure up images to help me along. Recently I've been visualizing a large black dildo pressed between my buttocks. I can't see the dildo; I only feel the cool rubber and the hard, lifelike ridges below the smooth head. I fantasize about being crammed, repeatedly, and begging for mercy.
Nothing gets my juices flowing as much as the thought of a man taking what he wants. That giant dildo feels strong, aggressive, and upon a little backwards wriggling, even intrusive. I can escape, even as I write this, eyes closed and asshole open, in the blissful vision of a man with his brawny arms around my slender waist, his hands pulling my hips towards his groin. He doesn't just want to fuck me in the ass; he thinks it's beautiful, and wants to fully explore it. Only a real man, one with lube and anal fixation, fucks like that. And I’m afraid lube and anal fixation have way too much mental airspace in my head.
Don't get me wrong; vaginal is fine. Vaginal is slow and steady and usually wins the race. Vaginal is never completely fabulous. I'm admitting it shamelessly: I worship my lube and anal fixation. I gravitate towards anal sxe. That sweet, lovely asshole of mine practically makes my decisions for me. Sometimes it makes impractical ones, makes me want to wear a Gucci mini and leave the thong at home when I go grocery shopping. It makes me reach for the greek yogurt on the very bottom shelf, so I bend over slowly, tantalizing the shy restocking boy and scandalizing all those jealous, pear-shaped women. I don’t know how to get over the magnificence of my asshole. Maybe I need to go sxe shopping, buy a vibrator for my lonely clit. I can unfixate myself. I can.
Okay, I can’t. I’m stuck all day with my fingers in my rosebud, my back stiff from leaning over the bathroom counter, neck sore from watching myself in the mirror behind me, the pink spasms of my asshole as I climax over and over again. Maybe I do need a man. My fingers don’t ever reach all the way to that sweet spot.
I wonder if I’ve ever really loved a man for his personality. I weigh his wallet and the way he treats my flower, and if I'm satisfied there, I slide right into “I love you” faster than a dildo into a lube-coated hole. I've forgotten what it's like to really truly just like someone, regardless of their penis size or favorite flavor of lube.
Perhaps the only way I'll slide into real love is to slide into "like" first, but that's so... vanilla. It's right up there with vaginal. And, as you know, I prefer chocolate.