Spent the evening watching film on my laptop with my roommate. The usual. A little basketball analysis, a little arguing over who makes the best fried chicken in the city, and the inevitable point where his hand finds its way up my shirt. The thing is, my brain just doesn't light up for that stuff. Never has. So while he's playing with my tits, I'm just... here. It's warm. I can feel the pressure, the texture of his fingers. It's not unpleasant. It's just a thing that's happening, like the background noise from the game. Sometimes I wonder what the big deal is. People lose their minds over this sensation I'll never understand. For me, it's just another way to pass the time before I have to hit the books again. The arrangement stays simple: he gets to touch, I get a clean apartment and more time to study. No fireworks, no drama. Just pragmatic.

Sometimes I think my pussy is the most chill part of me. Absolutely zero demands. The world could learn a thing or two.