Kissing Swans And Black Pearl Thongs

I didn’t speak to John again, but buoyed by my newfound online popularity I began to chat to Simon, a divorcee from somewhere in England. Simon was a successful software developer, and was bored and lonely, just seeking intelligent conversation with a pretty girl. He told me that he had been captivated by my “regal beauty and style” which I assumed was polite Internet speak for “your tits look nice in that top”. I pointed out that while he seemed lovely, did he realise that I was on the other side of the world? He did, and he didn’t mind. It seemed as though he just wanted to feel young and wanted.

We continued to talk for a good week, though it was a little difficult to project the cool, crystilline Ryder when real life me would rather be doing literally anything else. During one conversation he asked me what I wore to bed, and even though I was in a stained pair of period underpants and a battered Velvet Underground t-shirt, Ryder purred (or as close to it as text would convey) that she slept in lavender silk pyjamas. The heady mix of sensuous fabric on Ryder’s lithe body must have spiked Simon’s interest, as soon he was sending links to an adult product website and very chivalrously asked if he could buy me a $300 vibrator. Glancing at the noisy length of purple misery in the bottom drawer of my bedside table, I remembered the horror on the face of a former bed friend when he saw the sad state of my goodie drawer. “Yes, yes you may buy me that vibrator” I wrote, one of many sentences I never thought I would put together but would soon be firing off with machine gun rapidity. An hour later I had a Kissing Swan vibrator that cost more than a weeks rent, a beautiful lace kimono, and a pearl thong.

I had heard much about the mystical delights of a pearl thong, and remembered Sex And The City’s Samantha trying to climb endless flights of stairs, fighting waves of ecstasy as she went. I whipped on my new accessory as soon as it arrived and took to the stairs of my apartment building. To my disappointment, it was a total flop, with the pearls painfully pinching my inner labia and clitoris like an unskilled man in a cunnilingus competition. I accepted defeat after my tenth decent, and the less than titillating torture pants now sit in a shame basket among sweat rotted sports bras and odd socks in the corner of my bedroom. Still, I appreciated the opportunity to try them for myself.

In addition to my bedroom presents, Simon deposited $300 into my PayPal account “as a gesture of goodwill”. Considering I had started this caper in order to afford a large pizza and some wine, I was stunned at the success of my experiment. Simon was sweet and harmless, but his generosity was surely a hint that he expected a large chunk of my attention in return.

He continually rhapsodised about my beauty, and how he wanted to take me out on dates and buy me everything I could ever want. We would get to know each other slowly, he told me, going on long walks through the park and having cosy dinners in romantic restaurants. He was particularly smitten with the idea of having me don lycra activewear while we walked along the St Kilda foreshore. Having actually seen myself in activewear and finding the sight akin to a poorly stuffed sausage, I didn’t have the heart to shatter the fantasy. Then, when the time was right, he would kiss me like I had never been kissed before. Having once had someone stick their tongue up my nose to retrieve any remaining coke one night at a shitty dive bar on the lower East Side, I found this unlikely.

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