Fuck, Fuck, Fuckity Fuck

Sunday was a difficult day for me. I couldn’t sleep for shit. My acute lack of a girlfriend weighed heavily on my mind while tossing and turning. Then B had to visit me in my dreams, and in the context of avoiding her husband, of all things.

My Plenty Of Fish weekly match email comes on Sundays, so I spent a few minutes there, for the first time since Diana came into my life. Who, by the way, hasn’t had shit to say to me in almost three days, and wouldn’t even look in my direction at work yesterday. Wonder what the fuck I did to offend her. I didn’t spend much time on PoF. Too much insanity.

I am back to where I was a few years ago. I’ve decided that it would be better for me to occasionally contract the services of a professional. That way, at least I know what to expect. And if she’s good, for that hour I’ll feel like I have a girlfriend. No, I’m not going to have sex with a hooker. But I will pay handsomely for the ability to touch and caress a beautiful woman without limits (within reason) and pretend for a brief time that someone finds me desirable.

I filled out the pre-screening form, that promised login credentials within twenty-four hours that would allow me to schedule a visit. I’m not in a hurry, because I can’t afford anything for a few weeks. But it’s been twenty-four hours, and I have not yet received a reply.

Looks like I’ve been rejected by the whores, too.

On Sunday night, I learned that B had been reassigned to my line. She’s still on dayshift, and wasn’t scheduled to arrive until 0755. Since my shift is over at 0730, I didn’t expect to see her.

Wrong!

She got here as I was preparing to leave. My locker is adjacent to the cabinet where they keep gloves and such. I approached from the back to change into my street shoes, only to find her standing there in front of the cabinet, facing the opposite direction, putting her gloves on. Her ass looked amazing in the new jeans that she was wearing, and she had her hair up in this adorable braid.

She never saw me, but finished putting her gloves on, and walked away. After I changed my shoes and headed for the time clock, I saw her standing just out of my path, facing me, talking to someone. She saw me as I walked by, but refused to even glance my way.

She made me love her. Ruined me for anyone else. Shattered my heart in a million pieces when she left. Stomped on those pieces when she married him. Pulled at my heartstrings with her profound apologies. But won’t even look at me, much less offer a hint of a smile when I walk within five feet of her.

I don’t want the fucking bitch back, but it’d be really nice not to be treated like a damn leper.

When I got home, I mixed up the Dr. Pepper and Fireball that I threatened to try over the weekend but never got around to. It tasted great. But I couldn’t stand to mix it strong enough to get any benefit from it.

Pathetic. Can’t even rent a piece of ass, and can’t stand alcohol enough to get drunk.

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2 Responses to Fuck, Fuck, Fuckity Fuck

  1. Larry says:

    Damn, sounds like you need some recoil therapy.

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