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*Mandy is a fictional character who fully understands the need to use protection during sex. She ALWAYS uses contraceptives. If it is not mentioned in the story it is only to prevent the slowing down of the story or interruption to the fantasy element. Have fun and be safe!*
Act 1 – The Plot
I’m still not a whore. Okay, I did some pretty whorish things recently and I’ve decided that I completely deserve my forgiveness. Braden was a stud, plain and simple, and I was a young and fabulous woman who had been denied sex for over five months. And I’d been cheated on by my previous boyfriend.
If that doesn’t give me a free “fuck the next hot guy you meet” pass, then I don’t know what does.
So what happened to Braden? That’s the thought on your mind, right? What happened to the guy who fucked me in nearly every square foot of the carnival?
He’s gone. That’s where he is.
Typical guy, right? Well, I should go a little easier on him, I suppose, since he does live in Staten Island, New York, and I’m all the way down here in Charlotte, North Carolina. We haven’t completely lost contact.
We’ve done the, “so whatcha wearin’” telephone nonsense and we’ve done the “it’s so hard to type with one hand” thing while we masturbate via Internet chat.
Video chatting is a no go for me. I know it works for some people, but I can never figure out where to stare. The camera has that little lens and I know I end up looking cross eyed on the other end as I try to make sure my face stays focused on the camera. Either that or my eyes are open wide and my mouth is agape as I try to figure the camera thing out.
How sexy is that, huh?
Braden’s beating off with one hand while I’m leaned forward, cleavage revealed and all, snooping around the lens saying stupid shit like, “Is this thing even on? Can you see me?”
One time there was even that strange several-second delay. Our conversation started out good as Braden was doing most of the talking, telling me all the hot stuff he was going to do to me the next time he saw me. But then, the walkie talkie effect kicked in and I guess I started talking at the same time he was talking so the conversation sounded a little like this.
Braden: “…nd my balls…”
Me: “What? Braden, can you repeat that cause I didn’t hear…”
Braden: “…your hot tits all over my…”
Me: “What? You want your balls on my hot tits?”
Braden: “…while you ride my…”
Me: “That’s physically impossible, Braden!”
That was the last time we tried the video chat thing. And I haven’t seen Braden since. He’s been busy with work and I decided that I don’t need to hang around and wait to fucking video chat or email chat or whatever.
It’s not me. I’m Amanda Young and I decided I was putting myself fully on the market. Not that I was ever off the market, but you know…
So this is where the story gets interesting. Before Braden, I was a relatively level-headed professional. I fingered myself to anything with Channing Tatum or Ryan Reynolds, but I was pretty inactive when it came to actual pussy pounding sex.
Susie, my roommate, was getting her daily fix from Vince “Megatron” Adams over there. What? I started calling him Optimus Prime at one point but that’s a hell of a long nickname. Megatron serves the same purpose. He’s a fucking robot, giving her sexual pleasure every damned day. And he still wants to hook up that threesome. Ain’t gonna happen.
Braden changed me a little bit. He taught me that I deserve to be sexually pleased. Why should I wait for several months, meet what I think is the right guy, date for another several months, have some good sex and some bad, and then break up in a whirlwind of foul words slung at each other and lots of awkward times trying to get our shit back from each other’s houses?
Why? Why deal with all that hoopla?
The truth is, I can get the emotional attention I need from a pumpkin spice latte and fresh glazed, hot off the conveyor Krispy Kreme. I can get the humor from SNL and I can get hot sex from whatever guy is willing to give in.
Okay, I won’t just jump into the sack with anyone but you know what I mean. I’m not going to be that cold fish, nose in the air bitch I was at one point.
I’m the new and improved Mandy. Maybe I’ll hook up tonight, maybe I won’t. Life’s full of maybes.
Ben, my gay bestie, seems to like the new me too, especially when I fill our boring silences with stories about how I hung from a tree branch with my legs over Braden’s shoulders as he tongued my pussy.
Ben loves those stories. To him, they’re kind of like Chicken Soup for the Gay Horn Ball’s Soul. And since he too had recently decided to play the field, it was he who proposed one of the best ideas I’d heard in a while.
We were driving in my car, belting out the lyrics to the Phantom of the Opera soundtrack, don’t ask, when Ben suddenly reached out and smacked the pause button.
It wouldn’t have been a big deal if I’d realized he was gonna do it instead of continuing to screech at the top of my lungs, “That’s all I ask of youuuuuuuuuu!”
I opened my eyes, stopped singing, and just glared at him. He knew he was in trouble. He’d done this in the past and knew how I hated singing acapella in the middle of an orchestra-filled duet.
“Seriously? Dude, that was my jam.”
“Baby girl, I’m so sorry,” he said.
“Benjamin,” I replied. “You hurt me. You hurt me bad. Please do explain yourself.”
We both laughed and the mood went back to fabulous. Ben threw his hands up and excitedly announced:
“So I was at work today, right? And I was trying to sell this high school senior coordinator on how badass a trip to Cancun is for a grad trip. He was trying to purchase tickets for Universal Studios in Orlando. How lame is that? Right? I mean imagine your friends are wanting to party and you’re taking them through…”
Argh, what, Ben? Why did you pause the song?! I thought.
I love Ben, but he can go off on tangents that will make you want to put a pistol in your mouth, shake it around to knock out a few teeth, and then pull the trigger. This was going to be one of those times. And that just wouldn’t do.
“Ben, where’s this story going because we’ll reach the mall in about two minutes and something tells me you won’t reach the punch line or important info or climax to this story by then. What is it, babe?”
“So true,” he admitted. “Mmm kay. So this dork wasn’t buying it and as I continued to sell him on this completely phenomenal package, I thought…wait a minute…why don’t I go on this trip? Why don’t I see if Mandy and Jill and Susie and Vince and…”
“I get the point,” I jokingly interrupted him.
Okay, I just p
lain interrupted him but he was on to something. It was a great idea. My high school class actually did go to Cancun but I didn’t have the money to go. I didn’t come from an affluent family and I didn’t have a job and I didn’t have a body worth selling so my high school funds were quite lackluster.
