Dee's Journal

(Note to readers: An earlier version of this story was posted here in early 2022, in the Letters and Transcripts category. This revision is a standalone story, with much the same content as the original, but [I hope] a smoother presentation. This is also an entry in the Pink Orchid event. All characters in sex scenes are 18 or older, and the sex is female masturbation and one-on-one vanilla F-M. The name 'TruFoods' is invented, and if there really is a store by that name, the one in this story is not to be confused with it.)

***

March 9

Got no time, and I'm supposed to be journaling? I'm self-caring now anyway, so I might as well try this too. The naughty audiobook is running in the earbuds. The flatscreen is showing me men dancing naked. What's different is using my left hand to diddle my down-there, because the right hand is now busy scribbling, in something like cursive.

I'm 26, and I haven't had partner sex in two years.

If I took an STI test, the only thing that would come back positive is 'cobwebs.'

I've sublimated, and that's had a good outcome. I'm now the manager at the TruFoods here. I've made so many suggestions--about what we should be doing, and how the supply should be sourced--that the corporate office decided it's easier to put me in charge than to open scads of emails from me.

Suggestions? Maybe complaints. Or demands. Once I get going on an idea, a proposal can turn into a rant.

So maybe journaling is another kind of sublimating. I have nobody to rant at now, so I can rant at myself about mindfulness and sex and centering and sex and what the hell do I want, anyway?

I want the skinny guy, second from the right, with the uncut prick.

I want a third arm, so I can also pinch a nipple.

I want to bring healthy, planet-sustaining food to the whole world, even if billions of idiots refuse to eat it.

But maybe that stretches the meaning of 'want.' The first is a total fantasy, the second is a whine about this particular jill-off, and the third is hippie-moonbeam stuff. They're all true, but kinda beside the point. Which I think is finding somebody who'll help me stop being lonely.

Okay, go with that, Madame Journalist. I want to be not-lonely, but still have the option of being alone, sometimes. Or most of the time.

I like being me. I'm good company for me. I've never been as interested in anyone else as I am in me. It's an effort, to tamp down Mercedes Campanella when other people are around. So, potential soulmates need not apply. Check with me again in ten years. Five?

Not-lonely would include partner sex. It seems that, right now, I'd want that ten times a day, but that's because I've done without for so long. Also, I'm naked now, and playing with myself. And the deep voice from the audiobook just said how much he loves my ass.

When I was hooking up, the success rate in bed was like 20 percent, with maybe half of the other 80 percent ending with both of us pissed off and wondering why the hell did we try that? And then I'd have to find the guy a few days later and apologize for calling him a useless jerk, and in the next breath say that I didn't think it was a good idea for us to try again.

So inevitably I ran out of available guys. The good ones got dragged into the gravity wells of women seeking relationships, and the never-met ones were warned off by the ones I'd insulted.

Yes, Audio Guy, you may rim me. It's good that you asked for consent. Please use a virtual dental dam. You'll have to work around the fact that I'm lying butt-down.

From what I've read, journaling can only work if you're honest with yourself. The principles you insist on when you're out in public must be joined, in this spiral notebook, by the weakness and insecurity of the Inner You, who's lived Your Life.

I want men to like me. I want them to get turned on by me. How far will I go to accomplish that? Not all that far, which is why: Two years. And I don't feel an urge to change my basic behavior.

What I think I want to do is give off a vibe that's open and potentially approachable. With a quick flip, if necessary, to no-thanks-go-away.

In my previous dating, I tended to go pretty fast when a man and I had mutual interest. I think this led to many of the misfires. So, despite my paramount interest in myself, I should henceforth learn more about a prospect before pouncing on his johnson.

Damn. Distracting myself, because journaling. I can't just ride this forever. I could get too sore before I cum. First things first.

Okay, I came. Hey, if 'cum' is the present-tense verb for orgasm (and not just a noun for the yucky stuff that spurts out of a guy), there should be a past tense that isn't confused with the word for 'arrived.' What I did was, I caym. Sounds the same, except I know what it's really about.

I'm still buzzed. With both hands free I mauled a boob while I got two fingers into my cleft, with the thumb just barely able to rub the clit, and the bird fingertip finding the G Spot. Because I'm halfway sitting up, I had access to all of that, and also could watch the skinny guy on the video hug his best buddy, and each direct the other's erection at me.

Wow, writing that was liberating. I think that's the word I'm looking for. I put words on paper about me masturbating. Where can I hide this? Under the mattress?

Reading it over, it isn't all that hot. Where are the trembling lips, the writhing limbs, the spine-shaking contractions? They all happened. I need to write nastier. Next time.

***

March 10

If this keeps up, the journal is going to be pretty boring. So far, no amorous adventures. Maybe it's time to make lists, but I don't feel like drawing columns, and bullet-pointing desires, or goals, or strengths and weaknesses. I'll write stuff and see how I feel about it.

I'll start with looks. Mine. If I'm so superficial that my belly tingles every time Hollywood throws yet another Chris at me, how can I complain about men judging me on looks? Besides, this is judgment for sex. Recreational, not even procreational.

I get plenty of respect at work—well, fear, maybe, but that serves the purpose. I'm known as smart and bullshit-proof, but also fair and willing to listen. In my work wear, the TruFoods green bib apron over jeans and a plain shirt, I don't entice anybody, which is how I want it.

But if I go out prowling--and that's a big if--I've got some good Italian stuff going for me. Thick black hair, big dark eyes, lush lips. Also, clear skin and nice teeth, and a nose that isn't a huge drawback. The chin, now, kind of a problem, surrounded by too much softness. If I lean forward the jawline is a bit more sculpted, but then I might come across as a space-invading psycho.

I keep the hair in a moderate cut, to about the nape. The curls frame the face and call attention to it. The big nerdy glasses actually help, by featuring the eyes.

Can't get around being short, and 5' 3" lands there. I'm also absolutely committed to comfortable shoes. Some guy wants me in heels, he's out of luck. The soles on sneakers take me as far as I'll go towards the stratosphere.

The body, now, would bum me out if I thought about it very much. I usually don't, and thus I avoid a lot of anxiety, but for this fucking journal I'm supposed to tear off all the scabs. I'm not fat, I'm nowhere near obese (morbidly or otherwise). But from the gut to the thighs, I carry what I like to think of as an emergency reservoir, in case I get lost in the wilderness. Which is nowhere near where I live. So, I'm chunky.

Diet? Exercise? The former is perfect, because I really believe in the foods I sell. The latter, though, is mostly countable steps inside the store. I have no time for structured daily workouts.

I'm not making excuses when I say how much worse I'd look, and feel, if I caved in on junk food.

I'm distracting myself, by re-reading this. Fucking journal? Not yet. Morbidly obese? Is there such a thing as vivaciously obese?

So, if my face and hair and wits and (sometimes?) nice demeanor aren't enough to get a guy in the mood, my last and probably worst hope is my bosom. The ladies present as somewhere between a B and C cup, depending on menstrual cycle. They actually amount to something, being close-set, up high on a smallish torso. They also like to get involved in my body fun.

I have a wide variety of bras. There are some workday just-let-them-stay-put containers, varied in size and structure, to get a decent fit for a specific day. There's a uniboob sports thing. There's the loose, sheer, nylon naughty-girl, bought a few years ago on a whim. There's the gravity-fighting underwire. There's even a low-scoop side-shover that I keep in the rotation, even though I don't have tops to wear over it that'd show cleavage.

Actually, I have button-down tops, but my choice is for them to be button-ups. Should I change that? Should I let guys stare into where I'm probably flop-sweating?

As an owner-of mammary glands, I do generate quite a lot of heat there, so sometimes, like all others in my situation, I must move fabric aside to hasten the escape of said heat. Sorry, Fellahs, we don't do that for your sake.

I've never had to tell a guy who's checking me out, "I'm up here," but if he's basically cringing at my trunk junk, I might settle for raising his look to my tits, if not my eyes.

What about my preferences with guys? I've never thought that I have a physical/facial 'type.' Men at the level of male models, and Hollywood Chrises, I appreciate as eye candy. But I've never thought much about snaring them. I decided early on that I should think of such specimens as out of my league.

Why did I decide that? This must be a Journaling Moment, when I stop taking something for granted.

Was it because, since way back in school, I was a short Italian with curves in more wrong places than right? And I didn't hide how smart I was? And I didn't butter up guys just to get them to notice me?

That was pretty easy. It's always been top-of-mind, all it took was to find specific wording.

Back to the point. Like every human, I like symmetrical features. For practical reasons, I can't see going after anybody who's really tall. Facial hair does nothing for me, but it may not be a turn-off. Black? Latinx? Asian? There are men in every ethnic group I've enjoyed looking at. And some to whom I've been friendly-and-then-some.

Personal habits would factor in. Decades after the Surgeon General's report, why did anybody my age start to smoke tobacco?

That way lies judgment of personality and character, which I would do very quickly with any potential fun boy. Once again, though, this topic was looks.

I just spent a couple minutes staring off, without writing. I'll take that to mean, no, I probably don't have a type. Fellah, your grooming task is to ensure that you don't look like a total disaster.

***

March 13

I love my relatives more than I hate them, so I always show up for the extended family dinners on Sundays at my parents' house. It took a while, but Mom and Pop and I have worked out the protocol to keep this event mostly-enjoyable, for us and everyone else. There's no talk, with others in earshot, about my lack of getting married and having kids, nor about my absence from the parish church. I don't preach about food quality and safety, but I make a case by cooking and bringing a dish to share. With the median turnout of dinner attendees at about 14, this keeps me busy all of Sunday morning. I'm a good cook, and I know how to make healthy stuff tasty. The fact that I cook at all is enough to get the more tradition-bound attendees off my case.

As the youngest of five kids, I consider my life to have truly begun when I moved out to live on my own.

If someone asks, I mention what we're featuring at the store, which usually are ingredients in what I brought. Otherwise I participate in the main topic: What's going on with my sibs' kids. Doing this only once a week keeps it fresh, and I do care. But I'm quite content for that to be over with, once I get home and unload the serving dish and such in the kitchen sink.

I wrote about this, because it's the only thing that happened this weekend. And it wasn't any different from the previous weekend.

***

March 14

Another work day, another lack of opportunity to engage with someone in a personal way. When I'm at work, my focus stays on that, and I'm calm and efficient, and contented. It's only now, in this case eating dinner, and scribbling in the journal, that the brain is fatigued and the hormones start complaining.

I used to frequent a gaming/comic-book store. There was an organized gaming night in the store every Tuesday. Electronics on big flatscreens, board and card games on big tables. I stopped going when managing TruFoods started to claim my evenings.

A little diversity had started to creep in there, with the male/female ratio of regulars easing from 6:1 to about 3:1, and in time there arrived some males who weren't devoid of social skills. Those trends may have continued.

A quick internet scan just showed me that the event still exists, every Tuesday.

That's tomorrow.

Around here, COVID-19 restrictions have relaxed somewhat.

Pace yourself through the workday accordingly, Mercedes.

***

March 15

His name is Curt. He's not afraid to smile. He looks to be about 5'7", so I'm totally in his wheelhouse, and I won't get a stiff neck from looking him in the eyes. He comes across as pretty bland, physically and in terms of cultural trappings. He makes me feel ethnic, which doesn't happen too often. Gotta say, he's cute. I think he knows it, but holds back because of his below-average verticality. Sandy hair, blue eyes.

He was new to me, but known to everyone else, including the other four women who were there for gaming. He was cordial with them, but I didn't sense a closeness between him and any of them. He chatted me up, because to him I was new.

In response to my wisecracks (to the group as a whole, not just him), he smiled and/or chuckled. A couple times, I think he was surprised, and got to a full laugh.

As the evening progressed, he paid more and more attention to me.

I tried not to beg for this. I think I was pretty chill.

But I liked having that effect on him.

In a while, we were sitting next to each other for a tabletop game.

At one point, we laughed together.

Denise, a longtime participant, said, "Get a room!"

Curt and I hadn't done anything!

Or, had we?

The gaming would continue far into the night, because the store owner was one of the players. I left at what was a reasonable hour for me on a worknight, but I made a point of saying, to everyone in general, that I had fun and would be back next week.

I was positioned so I could see Curt, among others.

Curt smiled and nodded, but said nothing. Maybe he was embarrassed, and worried about what Denise or anyone else would pick up.

I had hoped he'd say something.

Is that enough truth, journal?

***

March 18

The original Sex and the City was before my time, but the reboot has gone all zeitgeist on my ass. I'm really not trying to write that way. I'm inclined to include the down-and-dirty anyway, so that helps (and gets me into the Bridget Jones turf). But I'm not going to concoct an episode in which an organic farmer shows up for a delivery, and he takes his shirt off, because unloading is hard work, and his sweat smells like Swiss chard, and once he empties the bed of his wind-and-solar-powered electric truck, I jump him there, even though I know he's married.

Okay, can't lie. To my specific cluster of interests, that's even hotter than it is funny.

I would never do anything sexual at work.

I should admit why I was thinking that way.

It's because Curt was at TruFoods today. And I had, in a way, encouraged that.

During gaming on Tuesday, Curt and I exchanged personal data. Totally reasonable thing to do with anyone you meet for the first time. I mentioned TruFoods, and what I did there. I think he decided that acting interested was in his interest.

"I've never been there," he said, and gave me what I figured to be his checking-me-out look. "I ought to stop in, maybe Friday."

There was so much to unpack from that. Curiosity about me, a potential meeting not at the date level, even him being considerate, specifying a day in case I didn't want to be surprised.

I merely nodded, and said, "If I happen to be on the customer side then, I'll say hello."

Because I might instead be in my office. Or the staff bay, or the break room, or the warehouse. As I thought more about it, I didn't actually want to meet up with him at my workplace. It almost seemed like an intrusion. I didn't promise to give him a tour, or anything.

But I also didn't ask him not to show up.

No, I didn't write about this before.

I've been sorting it out in my head since Tuesday.

I'm not accustomed to thinking about being thought about. By a man.

Anyway, I was as ready as I thought I had to be today. Which is to say, ready for any workday.

All morning, I treated it as any workday.

And pretty much through my lunch break.

By 1:30, I was taking more than occasional glances at the security cam feeds of the customer side.

At 2:47, I saw a short sandy-haired guy walk in, look around, take a basket off the stack, and head towards the aisles.

I waited three minutes. When I stood up from my desk chair, I found my anxiety expressed as a need to urinate. So it was a few more minutes before I got to the store floor.

Which allowed me to amble up behind him and say, "Finding everything you need?"

"Oh, hi," he said, turning, smiling.

He was expecting this as much as I was. And I think he was just as nervous.

He looked into his basket and moved things around. "Uh, maybe," he said, answering my question. Then his eyes met mine and he asked, "What would you recommend?"

Everything in the basket was prepared stuff.

"Do you cook?" I asked.

"Does microwaving count?"

"Only partly," I said, and my smile was probably a bit superior.

He lifted a can from his basket. "Here, hold this."

I did.

We carry plenty of canned goods, because people are busy. It's all suitably organic and, at most, naturally preserved, but not an ideal substitute for fresh and homemade.

Curt closed his eyes and put his left fingertips at his temple. "Open...heat...serve! See, not only do I know all three, but I get them in the right order!"

Now, that would have been funny from anybody. I intend to use it myself someday. But, coming from Curt...I laughed way too much, and enjoyed doing it. Because he was witty and self-aware, and I hadn't really seen that, to that extent, on Tuesday.

At least two employees caught me doing that. They'd never seen me like that before.

I returned the can to his basket and said, "Enjoy your bachelorhood. I need to get back to work, thanks for dropping in."

I did need to get back to work.

I didn't want to.

I was walking, and turned to wave. He raised his voice to reach me. "Tuesday?"

I basically told the entire store, "I'll be there!" With a gleeful thrill, like I'd been asked out to a prom.

***

March 20

I like my name. Mercedes is unusual enough to be distinctive. But three syllables can be a pain. When I was a kid, family and friends called me 'Dee,' and I've never hated that. But I wanted to outgrow it.

A couple of the nuns in school asked if they could call me "Mary." That was such a nun thing! I gave that a hard stop, I think politely enough.

For a while I was able to keep groups separate by giving each a different moniker for me. I trained the gamers in college to call me 'Mer.' The Agronomy faculty was asked to address me as 'Sadie.' As I approach sex-oriented dating, I've considered using 'Sade,' but that suggests an interest I don't have (and it's not the Marquis's pronunciation anyway). I could maybe use that on a second date, if I'm ready to ditch the guy.