Princess & Her Friend Average Joe

I had flowers in one hand and candy with a Valentine's Day card in the other.

"Happy Valentine's Day, Princess," I said with a big smile as soon as she answered the door.

I handed her the white roses, Godiva chocolates, and her Valentine's Day card. I leaned in for my reward hoping to kiss her on the lips, but I kissed her on the cheek instead, when she rolled her eyes and turned her head before giving me a look of annoyed indifference. Had this been the first time she acted like this to me, I'd be hurt, but I've grown accustomed to her rude behavior. It all comes with my idolization of her. I must enjoy being treated like a dog to continue this futile charade.

As soon as I walked in her house, I knew there was something wrong. It was obvious by her melancholy mood. It was Saturday, her shopping day, and normally she's excited about showing me what she bought. I've never seen someone who has so many pair of shoes.

Oh, poor, pitiful Princess, more drama, no doubt. What else is new? Now what? What can possibly be wrong this time? Did she break a fingernail or did she gain a pound? Unfortunately, to listen to her bitch is the price I pay to remain in her company.

Only, I can't help myself. If I thought with my brain, I wouldn't know why I'm still friends with her. Unfortunately, I'm a guy and guys don't think with their brains. We think with our penises and she just has to flash me those baby blues, as well as any part of her bodacious body, to make me do anything.

With her in my life, with her as my special, albeit one-sided Valentine, I was excited about Valentine's Day and couldn't wait to give her the candy, flowers, and card I had bought. I paid extra for this beautiful bouquet. Only, her bitter mood not only promised to wilt the flowers but also promised to ruin my good mood and this special day. I never expected her to be in a bad mood on Valentine's Day. She's always loved this special day of love for lovers.

She was so transparent. So self-absorbed and so self-centered, it was always all about her. The fact that she was like that endeared her to me. I have no explanation. I only know that she makes me crazy with sexual excitement.

Notwithstanding my feelings for her, I was always amazed at the lengths she'd go to gratify herself. Only, she should have a problem. She'll never change. She'll always be high maintenance. Even though she made me feel that I was no more important to her than a fashion accessory or a pair of her shoes, I was still in love with her and have been in love with her for five, long, frustrating years.

I'm invisible to her. She doesn't hear me when I talk. She doesn't laugh at my jokes. Excited about her uninteresting day, she talks over me most times. She's so rude and I'm so abused. In the way that she looks and in the way that she acts, she could have been one of those models on that new reality television show produced by Ashton Kutcher and Tyra Banks, True Beauty.

She doesn't want me. In the way that I imagine I connect with her, she doesn't connect with me on that level or on any level that is not about her. It took me a while to realize that she only needs me when she needs a favor or has furniture to move. I know that now. So long as I don't steal any of her limelight, so long as I cater to her, she'll continue to like me, but only as a friend and she always makes sure she introduces me as that.

"This is my friend, Joe."

She never says this is my boyfriend, Joe. She never says this is Joe. If she introduced me as Joe, there might be some confusion with people thinking that I was her boyfriend. She makes sure there's no confusion by introducing me as her friend, Joe, dumb Joe the sucker, that's me, average Joe.

This is my lap dog, Joe, is how she should introduce me. Sit Joe. Stay. Roll over, Joe. Play dead. All I need to fit that role is a collar and leash. It may not be so bad to be her real lap dog if she disciplined me every now and then. I'd allow her to spank me, so long as I could kiss her feet, while looking up her short skirt, that is. I'd allow her to beat me, so long as she stripped me naked first.

I follow her around too much like a puppy with my cock hardening instead of my tail wagging and my tongue hanging hoping she'll take the hint and French kiss me. Her dog gets more affection and attention than I do. Logically it doesn't make sense that I continue this fruitless friendship when I know it will never go any further and I'll be the one hurt, but I can't help myself.

With love in my heart and lust in my head, I hunger for her and always leave her starved with the empty feelings of a hungry man who sees food, a banquet, through a window, but is never invited to eat. Never feeling full or satisfied, always I leave her presence frustrated. I don't know what it is, but there is something about her that makes me wild enough with desire to continue to play this lonely, lopsided, and convoluted game. I know I'm a jackass for still hanging around and still harboring the false hope that she'll see the light and want me, one day. She put the flowers, candy, and card down on the table in the reception hall by the front door and walked stiffly in her room. It was obvious by her body language and slow movements that her little world had come to an end. I stared after her mesmerized by the rhythmic movement of her hips. She has such a wonderful ass. Then, when she disappeared in her room, I cast a glance down at the Valentine's Day card with her name written in bold, Princess, remembering how much time I spent visiting three different card stores and browsing through hundreds of cards to find just the right one. Excited about it before, I just wanted to chuck it in the trash now, but I didn't.

It was a special Valentine's Day card, in which I poured out my heart by writing the love filled sentiment that I wanted her to read. I was nervous and I was excited. It was the first time that I had written something so revealing. I told her I loved her. I told her I wanted her. I told her that I needed her in my life. Gees, in hindsight, now that I think of it, I practically proposed to her.

The card was perfect, though. It had a photo of two kids dressed as adults holding hands and kissing. The kids reminded me of us when we were that age. She liked me then. She even confessed to her friend Carol that she had a crush on me, but I wasn't interested in girls back then. Besides, she looked much different then, than she does now. Skinny without curves, she had braces, pimples, and knobby knees. She wasn't so hot. Back then, all the girls thought I was cute. Not much taller then, than I am now. I'm not as cute as I once was.

She was my perceived Valentine and I imagined her reading my Valentine Card and being so touched by my romantic honesty that she'd kiss me, French kiss me, before stripping off our clothes to make passionate love and proclaiming our love for one another. It took me weeks to write, rewrite, and edit what I wrote before I copied it to the card in my best penmanship. Only, she didn't even open the card. She didn't read what I wrote. Oh, well, so much for that. I'm used to her brushing me aside and stepping on my feelings. Even if she read my sentiments of love and commitment, she'd laugh it off as a joke.

"Oh, Joe, you're such a clown. Oh, Joe, that's so funny what you wrote."

Always, it makes me feel better buying her a card and pretending that she's mine. At least I'm able to live out my fantasy in the card store. Pretending that she's my girlfriend closes the empty hole that I have in my heart, a wound that she reopens and pours salt in, as soon as she's mean to me by ignoring me or saying something insensitive to hurt my feelings.

Nonetheless, roaming the aisles of the card store, I actually feel as if she's my girlfriend. It's amazing the extremes that those who love unrequitedly will go through just to remain in contact with the one they adore. I'd be the best boyfriend she ever had, if only she'd give me the chance. I'm such a fool to continue to believe that she will.

I walked to the kitchen and grabbed a vase, filled it with water and arranged the flowers, and left them where she could see them from her room when she emerged. Then, I opened the box of candy and took a chocolate truffle, my favorite. Mmm, it was so good. Heaven is the delicious sensation of a Godiva chocolate truffle. The dark chocolate did well to temporarily sooth my hurt feelings of rejection. I assuaged my unfulfilled feelings of lust for her by temporarily transferring how I felt about her to the candy. It was a meaningful manifestation of mind of matter and a transferal of emotion that I have grown accustomed to doing, whenever in her presence.

If only she'd see me for the man that I am. If only we had more of a relationship. If only she was made of chocolate, I'd lick her before taking a big bite out of her ass. Sugar and spice and everything nice, if only her ingredients were chocolate liquor, cacao beans, and vanilla, I slowly suck her feeling the effects of her rich, dark chocolate body melting in my mouth while imagining that I was sucking her nipple. She was such a bitch when she wanted to be, but I was in love with her anyway.

Yeah, sure, she's pretty, but there are other women who are just as pretty. Yeah, sure, she has a great body, but there are other women who have similar bodies and a much better personality than her, no doubt. Yet, I love her. I do. I really do. I can't help myself. She's all I think about. I want her. I need her. I must have her.

Just once, it'd be nice if she remembered me on Valentine's Day with a card. It doesn't have to be a love card, just a friendship card. I imagined her Valentine's Day inscription, "Happy Valentine's Day Joe, Love Princess." She didn't even have to mean that she loved me as a boyfriend, but as a friend, you know. Okay, if she wrote Regards, instead of love, I'd be happy.

It'd make my day if she bought me a gift, red boxer shorts with white hearts and with her personal inscription written on the back, "Property of Princess" or a keychain with an inscription, "To Joe, Love Princess." That would mean so much to me. Okay, maybe not red boxer shorts, but I'd forever treasure any gift received from her knowing that she had to go to the store and pick it out with me in mind.

She never used to be like this. She used to be kind, caring, and thoughtful. Now, she's a self-centered bitch. Still, even though I know this about her and what she's really like, I still can't remove her from my mind. My days and nights are consumed by my thoughts of her.

She has no friends really, except for her friend, Carol, who is equally as bitchy. Women hate her. She has lots of guy friends, though. As she does with most guys who lie prone at her feet, she has me wrapped around her long, shapely legs, while looking up at her unreachable and unattainable panty clad nirvana.

I'd do anything for the promise of having her, if only for one night. I'd do anything to bend her over the bathroom sink while sliding my cock in and out of her and gently banging her head against the mirror. I imagined holding onto her tits while humping her like that. Deeper and deeper and faster and faster, I'd hump her until she screamed my name.

"Joe, don't stop. Joe, I'm cumming! Joe, I love you."

"Look in the mirror, Princess. Look how pretty you are while you are getting fucked from behind like a dog. Go ahead and bark. Bark like the little dog that you are."

"Ruff, ruff. Ruff, ruff. Ruff, ruff."

I imagined her face blushing with passion. I imagined her lush, long blonde hair filled with the static electricity that visually sparked our passion ala the Bride of Frankenstein. Okay, maybe that's a bad analogy, but visually you know what I mean. I imagined her loving it and loving me in the way she's never loved anyone before.

I thought good thoughts and took a big breath before walking in her room. I wondered what drama I'd have to listen to now, just to be in the company of my Princess. This is how it must have been in court, when the Knights catered to their Queen. She was always so self-centered and so self-absorbed that I don't think she'd notice if I walked in her room naked. Just once, I'd love to parade around her naked to see if she'd notice my bouncing and bobbing erection. I don't think she'd notice if I stood beside her and jerked off.

"You'd better not get cum on me, Joe," I imagined she'd say while talking to her bitchy friend, Carol, on her cell phone. "Joe's naked again, Carol, and jerking off this time, he's such a pervert. No, Carol, I'm not going to touch his thing. Eww! No, I'm not going to help jerk him off. Eww! He's capable of doing that on his own. He doesn't need my help, the little pervert. Joe get away from me with your thing."

"Sorry, Princess, I'm surprised you even noticed that I was standing beside you naked and jerking off." I imagine myself looking down at my cock before looking up at her. "Do you like my cock? C'mon, look at it. Go ahead, touch it. Get on your knees, put it in your mouth, and swirl your tongue around it while stroking me."

"Eww! Get that thing away from me. Get away from me, Joe. Go away."

I imagine chasing her around her room while holding my prick and trying to get her to touch it. I'd love to show her my prick. I'd do anything for her to give me a hand job and French kiss me while I fondled her tits and fingered her nipples. I'd do anything to make love to her. Only, what I dream about and all that I imagined, I'd never do.

I imagined her engulfed with lustful desire for me. I couldn't help but imagine her falling to her knees once seeing my cock before taking it in her mouth. I sexually fantasize about her all the time. It's the same fantasy every time, kissing, hand jobs, and blowjobs with lots of fucking and then more blowjobs.

I pushed open the door that was ajar to her room. Quiet on the set! Lights! Camera! Action!

In her dramatic moment, she was standing by the mirror with her hands on the bureau and her head hanging down, as if she had just heard the news that her precious little dog, Paris, a dyed pink, miniature toy poodle had died. She could have been an actress vying to win an Academy Award. She had all the drama and dramatic movements of a Diva playing her role for her fans.

Finally, after I drank her exquisite, external beauty up with a long, lustful stare that began with her beautiful face, encompassed her C-cup, full breasts, curved inward to imagine my hand around her slim, toned waistline and before reaching down and outward to her round, firm ass, and down further to her long, shapely legs, I summoned the courage to delve into her internal ugliness with enough feigned sincerity to ask.

"What's the matter? What happened? Tell Joe."

She had that sad puppy dog face and her lip started quivering. Whenever she made that face, I just wanted to hold her, caress her, and kiss her. In the shallow way she treated me and all the times she ignored me, everything was forgiven. It wouldn't matter if she kicked me in the balls, so long as she made that sad face while doing it. I just wanted to tell her everything would be okay and I'll take care of her. Don't worry, Princess; I'll take care of everything.

Then, she burst into tears, crocodile tears. For such a beautiful girl, she cried ugly, Tammy Faye Bakker kind of ugly with spasms and black eye makeup running down her cheeks. Boo the fuck hoo; it was always the same melodrama. It was such a nightmare trying to be her friend when she didn't even know I was there most of the time. After a while it's tiring always asking about her life when she never asks about mine.

"Who are you?"

"I'm Joe. You've known me all your life."

"And what did you say your name is again?"

"Joe."

Okay, I'm exaggerating, but not by much. Yeah, it's that bad being her friend while hoping to be her boyfriend.

I walked to her and put my arms around her. Actually, I loved it when she cried. Her crying gave me a valid excuse to hold her and comfort her while I imagined myself touching, feeling, and caressing her exquisite body everywhere. She felt so good in my arms. She smelled fresh and sweet. We fit perfectly and I could feel my cock pressed against her soft belly before it slipped down in my pants and slowly swelled at the sensation of her body so close to mine.

While trying my best not to make them appear sexual, I kissed her forehead, cheek, and neck, while taking care not to overdo the kisses. It was magical imagining that I was her boyfriend and showering her with kisses while holding her. I so wanted to kiss her lips, but I was afraid. I didn't want to ruin our friendship with the one-sided love that I had for her. Careful not to make her feel uncomfortable, pressured or overwhelmed, in deference to how I felt, I was always more concerned with not hurting her feelings.

She squeezed harder and I returned her squeeze. I so wanted to hump her while holding her. I so wanted to reach both my hands down and cup her sweet, little ass and hump her. It took all the self-control I possessed not to reach my hand down the front of her, lift up her short skirt, stick my hand down her panty, and feel her smooth, shaved, perfect pussy while fingering her clit and kissing her. I wondered if she'd notice. I wondered if she'd know it was me.

"Joe, why is your hand down my panty? Why are you fingering my clit?"

"Sorry, Princess, it was an accident. My hand slipped," I imagined saying to her.

I know she has a shaved pussy because she told me. I asked if I could see it pretending that I had never seen a shaved pussy before, but she just gave me her you've got to be kidding me, in your dreams, bitchy sort of look. Hey, at least she looked at me. At least she acknowledged me. Only, I saw flashes of it anyway one day when she came in her bedroom from the bathroom after just having taken a shower.

She was only wearing a towel while talking on her cell phone to Rod, her boyfriend. As if I wasn't even there, as if I was invisible, she was lying on the bed with her knees up. She didn't even know she was flashing me her pussy. Or did she? How could she not know? Who knows? Who cares? At least I got to see her shaved pussy.

She's such a cock teaser. While the towel rode higher up her body with her every unconscious movement, she was lost in her sexual conversation with her boyfriend. I was almost waiting for her to pull out a vibrator and start masturbating while talking on the phone. I pretended to comb my hair in the mirror, while staring at the reflection of her shapely thighs, the side of her firm hips, and the constant and continually flashes of her pussy. Every now and then, she'd make a feeble attempt to cover her nakedness, but she gave me a peek-a-boo pussy show.

"Oh, Joe, I didn't know you were here. How long have you been here?"

"Since yesterday," I imagined saying to my perceived Esmeralda and walking with a limp ala Quasimodo in Victor Hugo's Hunchback of Notre Dame.

"You didn't see me, uhm, masturbate, did you?"

Her grip was so tight around my neck that she made me imagine we were naked in bed and she was having an orgasm while my cock was buried deep inside her. I wanted to push her back on the bed, rip her clothes away, and make sweet love to her. I imagined hearing her coo with ecstasy, as my cock rubbed against her clit, while my fingers pulled and twisted her nipples, and my tongue satisfied her need to French kiss me. If only I was the one, if only I was her one and only, and if only it was me she was so upset about. If only I was the one who could quiet her with wet French kisses, slow, delicate touches, and hot sex right now.

"Why are you so sad, Princess? Why are you crying? C'mon, tell Joe."

"Oh, Joe," she said.

Her lips were so close to my ear that her sweet breath tickled me. I loved it when she said my name in that way. It reminded me of the old movie dialogue from the forties whenever she said my name like that, "Oh, Joe." I wanted to turn my head and find her lips with mine and devour her tongue. Only, she'd never kiss me. I'd do nothing more than to piss her off and make an ass of myself. Moreover, she'd ban me from her house, from her room, and from seeing her. Then, I'd really be devastated with the loss of her as my friend.