Dear Emma, exploring your own sexuality through your life changes can't be a waste of time! Thanks to you, I've decided to pay homage to all those old-fashioned books that for such a long time were the only porn permitted to women... We've played with feminine stereotypes through the character of Amarna Miller, a romance writer. Australian good-looker Ryan James performs her imaginary object of desire. They have perfect sex, as perfect as only fiction can be (wait... except that this is real!). The result is a tender erotic satire: I think we might have invented a whole new genre here!
I had to shut down my pharmacy and rearrange the family's economy. My husband works in a security services enterprise. I have three kids, already in high school.
I began to spend more time at home for the first time in years. I don't like wasting my time, so I began going to the public library and thought I might read all the important books I always heard about but never dared to begin: Tolstoi, Dickens... One day, along with Stendhal's The Red and the Black I borrowed a novel with pink covers which seemed in demand. I had overheard a bit of the conversation between the lady who was returning it and the librarian. When I got home I wraped it with newspaper so that neither my husband nor my children would see the promise of passionate hot scenes on the cover. When my family left in the morning I got my book and read the hottest passages and masturbated. The following day I went back to the library and picked some more titles.
Time went by super fast. I masturbated, then vacuumed. I made lunch, then masturbated. I masturbated in the kitchen, over the couch, in my bedroom. I'd heard of people stimulating their clit with the shower head but had never tried (too eccentric for me), then I decided to do it. Got some products from the pharmacy nearby, products I had sold to young couples before, lubs with cold and hot effects. I masturbated. In my late forties, I was behaving like a teenager! Was I crazy? Was I an idiot? Was I wasting time? Or was I, for the first time, knowing myself through erotic books & masturbation? I had more appetite for my husband too. All those silly stories I was reading were inoculating the desire of adventures in my own real life. I even wondered, would I dare to have a lover?
This is my guilty pleasure: stupid, corny romance bullshit. I know these books are objectively NOT GOOD, and the sex depicted on them is NOT REAL. But I can't stop. This is a problem, since I've found a new job... I'm gonna have to find a secret place to masturbate, maybe in the Library's toilets, I don't know yet.