My acting is impeccable.
"Yes—harder, that's so good—yes, yes, fuck me more, yes, yes, ah—ah—ah—ah," I moaned like I meant it, face twisted into something that looked like pleasure. Not that I felt anything.
Scratch that. I felt nothing.
"Yes, yes, ah—ah—ah—ah," I gasped, eyes open. Alen's weren't. Figures.
He always shut them tight, like maybe if he didn't look, he could pretend I was someone else. I kept going, feeling nothing but a mild cramp in my thigh.
"Your pussy is sooo good, Mitch," Alen grunted, eyes squeezed shut. I wondered who he was picturing. It wasn't me. It never is. That's the thing—they always fuck the fantasy, not the woman in front of them.
We've been together for a year. Alen is sweet, attentive, even kind. His face? Decent. Body? Acceptable. But the sex? God—it's like biting into plain white bread and realizing someone forgot the jam. Or the flavor. Or the point.
We're engaged. A ring on my finger, a checklist in my head. Stability, tick. Decency, tick. Sparks? Chemistry? Orgasms? A big, bold blank.
"Ugh—ugh—ughh," he groaned as he came—on my chest, of course—like he was repainting a rental. Quick, careless, and not planning to stay. Then he collapsed on top of me, panting. He smeared his own cum with his hand like it was lotion. "I love you..." he whispered into my neck, eyes still shut. Still imagining her, huh?
Also—he's shit at licking pussy. No matter how many instructions I give, he just doesn't get it. I dated Alen because I thought maybe it was time to settle down. Thirty, you know? Practicality. Stability. He ticked the good guy boxes: non-toxic, employed, didn't mansplain things. But everything about us—especially in bed—was just bland. Like sex without seasoning.
I should've settled for better orgasms, not less loneliness. I wonder what real cum feels like during sex. Like, when you actually finish because someone knew what they were doing. I mean, I can make myself cum. I've read hundreds—huuuundreds—of smut manga and novels, and only a few bother to focus on female pleasure. It's always the same: a girl in tears happily gagging on a dick, a girl offering up her pussy like a peace treaty, a girl screaming "impregnate me now!" like a battle cry. Which is hilarious.
I'm pretty sure that doesn't happen in real life. And is it just me or do I just not like sucking dick? I suck Alen's after he sucks mine—like a cursed, unholy fifty-fifty. I studied how to twirl your tongue, tease the tip, all that, but never have I felt the urge to want to do it. Like, "You're so good at fucking and loving me I just want to hear you groan with your dick in my mouth."
Maybe I'm gay?
I hope I am. But I also don't have the intense longing to suck a pussy either. What I do have is an intense longing to be sucked—hard. To be fucked like there's no tomorrow and loved like I'm sacred.
I think I need a therapist.
Yes, I want sex. But I also want to feel safe. In this country, they teach you to be a good girl—not a girl who cums. They love quoting Bible verses to shame you—usually from memory, never in context—but somehow forget the part where Jesus literally said, "Love one another." That was kind of his thing, wasn't it? I don't recall him ever saying, "Thou shalt slut-shame women because their skirts made you horny."
Pretty sure Jesus wasn't obsessed with virginity, or reputation, or whether your boyfriend thinks foreplay is optional. He loved people. Not institutions. Not image control. Not performative morality dressed as tradition. But here? We're told to save ourselves for a man who won't even make us finish—then thank him for the opportunity.
Alen got up, dick hanging like a sad little clump of bananas. "Wanna shower, babe?"
I smiled sweetly. "I'll just lie down. You go ahead." He nodded, oblivious, and disappeared into the bathroom.
I looked down at the mess on my chest. He didn't even offer to clean it up. Classic. And why does he always unload on my tits like they're some kind of emotional exit ramp? I reached for a tissue on the nightstand and wiped myself off. This sex is not worth it.
I think I'm going to break up with him. But the thought made me pause. I'm thirty.
The market is not looking good. Most of the good ones are already married, others are in a cult, or just emotionally unavailable. Or all three.
The shower turned on. I grabbed my phone and opened one of my go-to female-focused pleasure mangas. It's the only way I can come. That's probably a problem. Someone send help.
In the manga, the male lead is licking the woman from her ankles up her thighs with slow, deliberate attention. Then he lightly touches her clit. The buildup is insane.
I pressed my fingers against mine. Gentle. Stroking my clit with a little more pressure. In my head, he's looking up at me while he eats me out like it's his last meal, savoring every second. I can see his tongue swirling around my pussy, his mouth covering everything before licking me again and again.
Gentle. Then firmer. Constant. Focused.
It's coming. It's coming. It's—
I came. Silently. Just a short, hot burst of relief.
Afterward, I stared at the ceiling. I think I might be sexually frustrated.
The next morning..
The next morning, I walked into Luna Films with makeup on point, hair in a loose bun, and an iced Americano in hand. Nobody needed to know I'd had a mini existential crisis over mediocre dick and a vibrator-induced identity spiral the night before.
The lobby buzzed with the usual creative chaos—an intern panicking about missing props, someone arguing over lens kits, and the scent of burnt coffee clinging to ambition. I glided through it like a ghost in matte lipstick.
"Morning, Mitch," said my assistant Yuki, clutching a folder like it held the secrets of the universe—or a script that could actually make me finish.
"Morning. Did the scripts come in?"
"Yup. Four new submissions. Two indie, one from a webnovelist with a solid following, and... one erotica."
My ears perked. "Erotica?"
"Very smutty," she whispered, like we were about to summon demons.
"Good. I need something with balls."
She blinked, then giggled and handed me the folder.
I kicked off my heels and dropped into my office chair like I was claiming a throne. The erotica script came first. The title? Claim Me, Oh My Priest. I cackled. Of course. And kept reading.
It was surprisingly well-written. Dark. Sensual. A little ridiculous—but the woman was complex, not just a sobbing blow-up doll. And the smut? Actually designed to make you feel something.
I was halfway through a particularly filthy scene when a quiet voice read over my shoulder:
"'He knelt between her legs and whispered, Let me worship you properly this time.' Hmm. Strong start."
I froze.
Slowly, I turned.
Rafael Ramos. Raf. Luna's golden boy. Too good-looking. Too charming. Standing behind my desk like he owned the damn place, holding my coffee cup—my actual coffee—and smirking like he'd just walked in on my browser history.
"I didn't hear you come in," I said coolly, minimizing the document like I hadn't just been caught reading priest smut at 9:17 a.m.
"I slipped past Yuki," he said, sipping my Americano. "Didn't think I'd find you so deep in scripture."
"You're drinking my coffee."
"You're reading holy filth. We're both committing crimes today."
I rolled my eyes.
"Don't you have a movie to shoot, Raf?"
"Wrapped last week. You'd know that if you followed my career more religiously."
"Why are you here?"
"Visiting my favorite producer. Hoping you'll let me in on your next big project."
"You only like me because I told you your last performance didn't suck."
"You said it was 'tolerable.' I nearly cried."
I gave him a blank stare. He smiled wider.
"I could be helpful. I'm great at reading lines."
"Pretty sure you're just great at being a distraction."
"You wound me."
Eventually, he left. Not without tossing a wink over his shoulder—the kind of wink that's premeditated. Controlled. For the audience, not the subject.
I didn't roll my eyes this time. I stayed still. Calm. Professional. Irritated. Slightly flustered. But mostly irritated.
I shook my head and got back to the script.
Later, while preparing notes for a meeting, a Messenger notification popped up on my screen:
Karla (2nd cousin of his ex or smth lol):
Hi. Sorry, I know this is random. I saw your engagement post a few months ago—and I thought you deserved to know.
Your fiancé is on Bumble. Says he's single. I matched with him last night. Same selfie from your anniversary post. Same cringe bio.
Girl code. Attached screenshots below. Good luck.
There he was. Alen.
"Strategic storyteller. Lover of music, silence, and long drives."
God. Even his lies were boring.
Same smug photo. Same black shirt from the night he gave that recycled speech about being "ready to build a future."
I glanced down at the ring on my finger. It suddenly felt like it belonged to a stranger. Heavy. Tight.
"I could sell this," I muttered.
Put it toward something useful. Like a trip. A therapist. A mechanical god-tier vibrator.
Then I smiled.
Well. Guess I'm single.
Time to return the favor.