My parents are out for dinner and the house is so quiet. I'm curled up on the couch with one of my cats purring on my lap, but my brain won't shut up. I keep thinking about how lonely it feels to be touched without being seen. Like when a guy just focuses on his own pleasure—shoves his cock in, gets his nut, and leaves. I've had that happen. It felt like my body was just a warm hole, not a person.

But then I read these books where the guy actually looks at her. He kisses her stomach, tells her she's beautiful, makes sure she's soaked before he even tries to slide inside. I want that so bad it makes my chest ache. I want someone to worship my body, to make me feel like my fat rolls and stretch marks are something to kiss, not hide. To take their time, make me beg for it, and then fill me up like they never want to leave. My pussy gets so wet just imagining it—someone taking their time with me, loving on me, not just using me. I wish I wasn't just a placeholder for real intimacy.