A few months into the pandemic, I was hungry for any kind of new human connection. Sure, I had my weekly Zoom hang, plus a new appreciation for banana bread, and I was dabbling in microdosing as a means of getting through. But that wasn’t enough. I dreamt of finger nails tracing my back, deep kisses, biting lips and hips pressed together. I desperately needed to cum. Not just casually-cross-it-off-your-to-do-list kind of cum — I needed to lose-all-control, give-into-the-sensation, mind-goes-blank cum. So I swiped and scoured and picked away at the available queers online until I came across her.
She was tall and fat, like me. She had a broad smile and perfect hips and a soft little belly. Her hair was naturally gray, falling just past her shoulders, and looking at her photo brought me a new kind of peace. I had to know her. We matched, thanked the universe, and exchanged messages all night until we settled on a phone call that Saturday. Three hours into our call, I had butterflies i...
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