I wanted to give him a taste of what he’d lost. I didn’t know it would go this far.
My neighbor is a good man. Older and lonely after his wife passed, but the sort of guy who deserved the best. And during this time of year, when the weather is cold and the nights are long, I wanted to give him a little bit of comfort.
I became a woman, only to sing for him. It was what she’d done, what they’d done together, and I could only sing the melodies to his harmonies if I brought her back to him through me.
So I arranged for it. I took a pill that made me into the version of her that he’d met all those years ago. I showed up on his doorstep and I sang for him and I put a smile on his face and that was all that it was meant to be.
But when we’re in his home, I realize that the years have been kind to him. He has a solid kind of strength and sure he’s older, but that could just mean experience.
And he wants me. I’m her, of course he wants me. He aches for me with the fullness of his loss and the closer he gets by the fire, the more I feel it too.
It’s so cold outside. It’s so warm in here. Maybe I’ll spend the night.
Excerpt
I have had precisely three relationships in my life, romantic ones that is. Well, romantic might be putting a bit of a stretch on it since I don’t know that any of them lasted long enough to get to the point of actual deep feelings.
Three relationships that had the potential to be romantic and had elements of biological sexuality to them and all of them failed and the common denominator in each one of them was me. I was the reason they all failed and while I could explain it all away as being busy with work or a dozen other perfectly valid reasons the truth is that the real reason they didn’t work out was that I used terms like ‘biological sexuality’ refer to attraction.
If I’d been ever given more than a few minutes passing thought to myself and my attraction to others, I’d probably have to come to the conclusion that I was asexual. Any inclination to sexual release was strictly a mechanical necessity for me, and if I could remove those impulses while still functioning as a human being I might just have been inclined to do that, because frankly I didn’t see any need for it.
I had three relationships and they all turned physical, but the physicality was always lacking whatever ephemeral element drew people in to need that release. I masturbated, but literally only ever to prevent other problems down the line.
Literally have a reminder on my online calendar to masturbate once every seventy-two hours. For reasons of health and because if I go much longer than that I risk my body taking care of things for itself in the middle of the night and that would mess up the schedule for washing my bedsheets.
But never have I ever felt the need to touch myself, to play with myself. Never have I felt the need to get off, at least not like this.
Lying in bed trying desperately to find a way to justify this that didn’t use the word need. Trying to find a way to describe what I was about to do without falling into the sort of crude psychology that I’d never in my life understood before. Figuring that maybe I could find that justification and maybe the justification would lower the blush in my cheeks at the thought of touching myself, of pleasuring myself, of making myself cum.
It’s an experiment, yes? It’s a chance to confirm a hypothesis, to answer a question surrounding the existence of a phenomena that science had long believed to be nothing more than urban legend because if you can’t see it you can’t prove it and if you can’t prove it then there is no reason to believe it is real.
The female orgasm, myth or reality?
That was my justification. That was my explanation. That was my reason for all of this.