THE STORY OF C – Chapter 2

Back in the US I call up an old friend, a friend who once liked me, a man. We get coffee, and it’s all very civilized. We discuss ex-lovers, his foot fetish, my submissiveness, our favorite seafood recipes, and the flawed concept of romance. Back at his place, we make cupcakes and then put frosting on each other. When I ask him where the bedroom is, he  tells me he’s actually a romantic and still loves his ex-girlfriend who lives in Virginia. Fair enough. But then why did you let yourself put pink frosting on my nipples and lick it off?

Suffice to say, I’m glad to get back on the plane and head back to Berlin, gray though it may be. At least every week I get to see Ulrike. Her shining hair, her slim fingers, so much longer than mine, her knobby knees.

I miss Amy. But I must forget her.

It’s night here in Berlin. I have just purchased a sleek-looking blue silicon vibrator from FunFactory. Embarrassed by the FunFactory bag, I hid the evidence of my multi-faceted sexuality and high libido in a plain canvas bag. I have been masturbating for days on end with no orgasm in sight… I have been waiting to do this for as long as I have been a sentiently sexual being. Now that I have, I have my misgivings–my sole advice giver for affairs such as these is my ex-girlfriend. I realize belatedly that I have chosen electric blue, as if in homage to her color preferences. Only yesterday she was saying to me how she wished her vibrator was electric blue. (And yes, we are still close enough to share experiences like the color of her vibrator.) I realize also that many of my ideas lately are influenced by the almost invisible and certainly un-purposeful hand of my ex-girlfriend: the fact that I have purchased a vibrator at all, and one from FunFactory, and an electric blue one, rechargeable. She would approve. She will approve, for I’m bound to tell her. My last absurd hair idea was to dye my hair blue. But how much of this style move would be the result of Amy’s influence? I never wanted to dye my hair before I met her. O fie. O spite. O hell, as the characters in Midsummernights Dream would say.

I am fidgety on the hour long S-Bahn ride back home. I want to try my new toy. I want to see if it will be the solution to my masturbation problem. I carefully practiced what to say before I left for my journey to the FunFactory in Hackeschermarkt. “Ich masturbiere studenlang, aber ich komme nie. Bitte helfen Sie mir, ich bin fast verrueckt.” But I didn’t have to say those desperate words. After a brief and professional overview of the toys, I was left alone with my desperation to choose shape and color. I chose the ‘ocean’ model (as I have said, in electric blue). It is petite (perhaps too petite) with two stylized wave-like bumps attached to a short hilt. When I finally get home (one wrong S-Bahn and several other trains and buses later) I can hardly wait to tear open the packaging. No one is home in the apartment. Fortuitous fate! While I wait for the vibe to charge, I tab over to my new sex-blog obsession “Leah lays London,” in which the writer posts sexual ads to craigslistlondon in search of “casual kink,” an idea that has taken me by force. Sex, without the usual torturous dating process… and kinky sex, at that. A dangerous risk, most likely. But it appeals on so many different levels. An hour or two later, moist in my panties and gagging for release, I roll over to check on the vibrator… which still flashes its red light of unavailability at me. I finally cave and read the directions, which inform me that 6-8 hours are required to fully charge the vibe. Resigned, I close the smut tab and dedicate myself to my musical pursuits. But in the evening after dinner, I see that the vibe is ready. I put on loud music with long songs (which already feels strange and artificial… but my walls are thin and I do not want to be overheard, especially if I don’t come). Overly excited mentally, and not at all excited physically, I make a cursory attempt to whet my appetite (wet myself, actually), which amounts to very little. But with lube and a little bit of patience, I come within 20 minutes. It is perhaps 10 percent capacity, but I am satisfied for now with this outcome. The lube is sticky and sweet, a strange flavor when combined with my salty, sweaty animal musk. I resolve to prepare myself more thoroughly in my next experiment, so that I do not have to taste the incongruity once again.

Inexplicably (or perhaps too terribly explicably) and suddenly, I miss my ex-girlfriend. I am angry that coming has this effect on me. I am angry that I have no one to tell about my little death. I am angry that my vibrator is electric blue. I am angry that I have no one to report this purchase to, other than Amy. I want to fall in love quite desperately. Anyone will do. Woman seeks lovable pair of fingers. Woman seeks all-consuming sex with disembodied cock. Woman seeks a warm body, to help her forget. When these things are not found, as they inevitably are not, woman seeks alcohol, vibrator, and lube. I may cry tonight.


Awoke myself this morning with the vibe. I am of course still hungry for more, but I can’t justify spending the day with my vibrator in bed, especially because I fear the magic ending. I fear the day when I wake up and the vibrator is no longer strong enough for my dulled clitoris. I fear the day when I wake up and no partner is able to satisfy me like my vibrator. In fear of that day, I try not to overuse the power I have been given. But it is so tempting. After 11 months of not coming, I am finally getting some measure of release. But I remind myself that a lover is what I’m looking for, not a toy. Using the toy gives me a grim sort of panic. I must find a lover. Sooner, rather than later.

Perhaps my thoughts should turn to something other than sex now. It may be an indication to you of the magnitude of my preoccupation with sex, that I can think of no other interesting topic.

Berlin today is dull and gray and cold no doubt. Light snow is predicted. It is April. Where others are enjoying the blooming of spring, we remain mired in fog and snow and clouds and sadness. It is true that Berlin has only two seasons. Summer and winter. And what a long winter it has been.

Maybe today I will flip a coin to decide whether or not I will post a craigslist ad. What’s the worst that can happen? I post the ad and all the responses are creepy. Or, I post the ad and the responses are creepy, but I don’t realize, and end up going on dates with creeps. Dangerous days. My subconscious is overflowing with sex. I dreamt last night of nude male models being photographed brazenly in a restaurant.

Now is the time for me to be doing dangerous things. When will I have this chance again?


I dreamt last night of pressing my round ass into a man’s hard penis. He would shy away, embarrassed, but I was brazen and laughing like a young goddess.

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