Annie sprinted on the spot, flailing her hands and smiling broadly after she told me that Steven had proposed. She settled down and stuck out her hand, the sun reflecting off the massive diamond on her finger. I enjoyed seeing her that jubilant. She was a wonderful person who deserved to be happy.
As she told me how Steven had arranged a dinner on the beach, with a waiter serving them at sunset, a pinch of jealousy stung me. When will I have my moment? Why hasn’t Mr Right swept me off my feet and told me that I’m the most amazing woman in the world?
After eating seafood, Annie told me that the waiter brought her dessert on a silver platter with a stainless steel cover. She frowned, uncertain of what it was because she hadn’t placed an order after the main meal. Steven lifted the lid, and her eyes bulged as she leaned into the open ring box. Her detailed explanation made me wish badly that it had been me.
I deserve my special day, and I’ll be damned if I’m going to be thirty-five and unmarried. Although I had a few years until then, I needed to find my dream man right now. We needed to date for about a year before moving in together, so I could see his domestic habits to know if I could tolerate them. I know he’s not going to be perfect, so it’s important for me to know the degree of his flaws.
After being with him for two years and deciding that he’s the man for me, I’ll start dropping subtle hints about a proposal. Considering he’s a man, it’ll take him a few weeks, maybe even months, to understand my inkling. That brings the timeline to about two and a half years.
Then, we’ll need to plan the wedding for another six months. If it works out like that, I’ll be around thirty-four years old. I won’t be a young bride, but it’s better than being forty and without a husband.
Hoping for that time frame to get married, I realised that I needed a man ASAP. I considered asking Annie to speak to Steven about introducing me to his friends who were interested in finding a wife. I had never met them, but I figured that they were decent like him.
Bringing up the topic seemed awkward because I thought she would think I’m desperate and so would Steven’s friends. One never has the upper hand in a negotiation when revealing desperation. I want my man to think that he’s fortunate to meet me.
Annie was my best friend, and I wanted our friendship to last. I knew that once she got married, she would have less time to spend with me. But if I got married, she and Steven would visit my husband and me. We could go out for a double dinner date. Those events won’t happen if I remain single. Annie and I will grow further apart. She may invite me to tag along for an outing with her and Steven because she feels sorry for me. But our friendship won’t be the same. And I hate being the third wheel. It will be an incessant reminder of my single status.
On Monday, after work, I wrote a list of the places where I can find single, good men. Some of the places are an upmarket cocktail bar, a steakhouse and maybe the mall. I used to frequent those places with Annie when she was single, and now, I would have to go there alone. The mere thought of it seemed daunting.
I could only imagine what everybody would think of me if I danced or dined by myself. They’d whisper to each other that I’m a slut and easy prey. That would repel high-quality men from approaching me and encourage the losers.
My phone buzzed, distracting me from the list. I checked my social media account and saw pictures of happy couples. Scrolling through their pictures made me have an epiphany. Most of those couples met online. They must’ve. If not, then how else?
I thought about uploading sexier selfies on my profiles, but that could be an invitation for perverts. I figured that the best platform would be a dating app. Surely that’s where I will find a man looking for a serious woman?
I thought about creating a profile on various apps to increase the likelihood of meeting Mr Right, but I believed that would make me look desperate. Some men, potentially my husband, would see that I’m on various sites because he’s using that strategy and would feel repulsed by my desperation.
I chose to create a profile on one app, answering all the questions so that Mr Right wouldn’t feel that anything about me was ambiguous. He needed to be certain that I was for him before messaging me.
A few minutes after the administrator approved my profile, I received three messages. That was too soon for them to have enough time to read my detailed profile. I chose not to open their messages.
I checked my inbox the following day and saw that I had more than fifty messages. Wow. I smiled, proud of myself for attracting so many men. I figured that one of them must be Mr Right.
My work day was cluttered with tasks, so I had to wait to get home and browse through the resumes of the men who had applied to be my husband. I couldn’t wait.
At home, after quickly eating a salad, I opened the app and read the messages. The first five messages were too brief, only greeting me, or too perverse, telling me that they were alone and could visit or host me. I carried on reading.
After the tenth message, I skimmed through the next ten, becoming skilled at filtering out the time wasters.
I wanted to leave the remaining messages for tomorrow, but I knew that I would possibly have even more to read then.
Abruptly, I completely lost interest in reading the remaining messages. It felt like my gut overwhelmed my emotions, forcing them to abandon their desires.
I was uncertain of how to feel. Choosing not to interact with the men who messaged me would not yield the result that I wanted. Yet, I felt that I had made the right decision.
I sat on the couch and analysed my change of heart. It was abrupt, shocking and illogical. I was convinced that my heart had an agenda that opposed my best interests. I couldn’t figure out what happened.
A flow of sadness seeped into my heart. I felt worse because I had nobody to blame for my loneliness but myself. The pain was self-inflicted, but I felt that I hadn’t made the decision willingly. My gut and heart conspired to sabotage me.
When boredom set in, I pulled down my leggings and rubbed my pussy over my g-string. I felt a tingling sensation, forcing me to pull off my g-string. I rubbed my clitoris and closed my eyes.
Slouching on the couch, I raised my legs above my head and parted them. I shoved two fingers into my pussy and drilled it as I thought about a thick dick inside of me. The man’s face wasn’t visible, and it didn’t need to be. The only thing that mattered was the feeling of a dick inside of me. God, it felt amazing.
My pussy moistened, and I moaned. I desperately wanted a real dick inside of me, but an image of it in my head sufficed.
Fluid covered my fingers as some of it spilt out of my pussy. I raised my head back, opened my mouth and shot out, “Oh, God, yes. That feels so good.”
I fingered myself faster, and more fluid spilt out of my soaking wet pussy. I fiddled with my clitoris while fingering myself. That accentuated my pleasure, so I leaned forward and frowned, my eyes closed.
“Oh, God. Oh, God, I’m gonna cum.”
My head snapped back, slamming into the couch, and I opened my mouth wide and screamed as fluid spurted out of my pussy. My chest inflated as my lungs opened up, grasping for oxygen to cool down the fireball of lust inside my chest.
After a few deep exhales, I managed to catch my breath. The floor in front of the couch was damp.
I sat up and thought about the events that led me to masturbate. I smiled, realising that I had a major epiphany. The only person responsible for my happiness was myself. I had to be happy with my life and the person I had become before welcoming somebody new into my life. My happiness couldn’t depend on somebody because that meant I surrendered my power to him, and he could control me as he pleased.
I also realised that a man would complement my life. He may be the love of my life, but he could never be my entire life. If he were, then I wouldn’t have a life without him if he left me or passed away, and I could never let that happen.
My change of heart about not replying to the messages made sense. Strangely, it required masturbation for me to understand the cause of my happiness.