AllFreeNovel
Share Us
ME: No. I meant when it’s inserted.
I wait for a reply, but this time there are no typing bubbles. Maybe he’s having dinner and doesn’t want to talk about anal right now. Maybe he didn’t mean sexual advice when he said I could get a hold of him if I had any questions. Damn it. Now I am embarrassed.
ME: I’m sorry. I know that probably came out of left field… it’s just that it’s hard. Hard like hard to get it to go in. It doesn’t feel great. I was just hoping you’d tell me the real deal feels better.
Three little dots bounced on my screen like popcorn popping, making me smile. Sighing in relief, I wait for the verdict.
PETE: Show it to me.
He wants proof-of-dildo? Um, that’s embarrassing. I did admit I have one though, so I’m probably being silly. I guess it makes sense that he’d want to see it. He knows I’m inexperienced. What if I bought the lemon of all dildos?
Picking it up, I decide to photograph it in my palm. That should help to give him a point of reference as to its size and shape. Sending off the image, I pace around my room while I wait for his opinion.
I measured myself when I was hard and picked this one because it seemed the most comparable to… well, to myself. Eight inches. I’ve watched porn where men were longer than eight inches. I’ve read that six is the norm, so I figured I’m average. Average seemed like a good goal to shoot for. It does look daunting how it eclipses the span of my palm, but it’s not like I have to take all of it. I was just trying to accomplish getting the tip inside for now without turning me off to the idea of sex. Baby steps.
PETE: DO NOT insert that thing.
Wow. Not the reply I was expecting.
Don’t insert it? Why? That’s what you’re supposed to do with a dildo. I tried frotting with it, but it nearly gave me dick burn. What’s wrong with it?
Damn. I can’t even buy the right sex toys.
Before I can ask him to clarify, another message pops up.
PETE: ANYWHERE
Is his phone stuck on the caps function or is my foul that serious? I’ve read horror stories online about guys getting toys too small lost in their ass. That is not a trip to the ER that I want to make. With my luck, they’d call my mother. She’s listed as my emergency contact.
ME: Well, what should I use instead? My finger isn’t exactly like the real thing, but I need to practice somehow.
Chewing my lip, I try to ignore the fact that it’s only Wednesday, and I used said finger last night. Possibly while reliving Monday night's lesson with Pete. All it took was the memory of him saying, ‘Go to my room,’ and one graze to my prostate, and I came all over my sheets. We were together two days ago, and I’ve been half-hard every minute of the day since. He showed me a taste of what intimacy feels like, and I approve. I approve so wholeheartedly that I know I need to be prepared for more because there’s no way I can wait another twenty-five years for sex after learning the joys of frotting.
PETE: I’ll send you something. What’s your address?
I stare at the reply until I realize I’m wondering if he’s going to send himself. My pulse dances in my neck at the thought of opening my door to find a Pete Carver on the other side of it. Wouldn’t that be nice?
Shaking my head, I blink out of the lust. Wow. I’m hard just from that fantasy. I’ll never last on a first date if I’m attracted to a guy. Or… maybe I won’t last if I think about Pete.
He’s basically my first real crush, understandably. How could he not be after what we shared? He was so patient with me, listening to me babble about the prom.
Ugh. I’m such a nerd.
But he was also… feral when I needed him to be feral. The way he looked so into it, so into me, despite my nerves and inexperience—it’s everything I could ever hope for in a partner. I hope the world made more than one man like Pete.
Sending off my information, I thank him. Thank him for what, I’m not sure. I’m half-tempted to tell him not to bother sending articles, movies, or magazines because I’ve already scoured my share of those, and they’re clearly misleading, or I misunderstand them. I’ve humiliated myself enough for one evening though and don’t want to annoy him.
Tugging on my underwear, I frown at my dildo. My hole is still sore from trying to force it through my sphincter. Grabbing it, I start for the restroom to clean it, but remember what Pete said.
Don’t insert it anywhere. I guess that probably even means don’t insert it into my nightstand drawer because the only reason I can think to keep it would be for frotting. Since that didn’t go so well either, I toss it in the trashcan next to my bed. It lands with a thunk. The sound has a depressing finality to it, as though it’s signaling the state of my plan. I know it’s only been two days since my time with Pete ended, but I don’t feel as inspired as I thought I would.
“You can’t measure progress after two days, Cam,” I mutter, crawling under my blanket.
Patience. I need patience. I should probably start drafting dating app profiles. Trying to describe myself, however, is even more depressing than failing Sex Toys 101. Every adjective that I can come up with doesn’t make me sound appealing. If I get zero likes, I’m going to join a monastery or go grovel on Pete’s doorstep with cinnamon lattes until he takes pity on me again.
Why is it so difficult? People who put themselves out there deserve a trophy. If I strike out, at the very least, I’ll have the memory of my lessons.
My smile stretches against my pillow. They are absolutely perfect memories indeed. Pressing my fingertips into my hip where he held me, I wonder if he has any difficulty not thinking of me at work the way I’ve struggled to not look for him around every corner.
