Study break. Sitting on the couch, legs thrown over the armrest, scrolling my phone. Roommate walks by, stops, looks at me, looks at his hand. We both know the drill. No words needed. He kneels down, pushes my shorts to the side, and starts eating me out. I can feel the wetness, the pressure of his tongue on my clit, the specific rhythm he’s learned works for him. For me? It’s just a sensation. A neutral, wet friction. I keep scrolling, pausing to read an article about feline hepatic lipidosis. He moans into my pussy like he’s getting something out of this, and I guess he is. I’m just getting a clean bathroom tomorrow. It’s so bizarrely transactional and yet completely peaceful. My brain is here, in this room, but it’s also somewhere else entirely, thinking about osmosis and electrolyte balances. The human body is just a series of systems, some more distracting than others. His beard is scratchy, though. Might text him that reminder later.

Sometimes I wonder if this is what enlightenment feels like. Complete detachment from a sensation the whole world wars over. My cunt is just another organ, doing its job, utterly unimpressed by the attention. (Mood: Detached)