Celibacy might be fine for some people, but I never could get the hang of it.
I had just split up with my girlfriend Paula, who I'd been with for almost three years. She'd left me. I had never been dumped before in my life. I had always been the dumper. It stung me more than I would have believed possible, so bad that I dropped out of art school and fled Chicago. I had inherited some money when my Mother died, enough to live on for quite some time. I found a house in a community as remote as it could be from the city and still be called a suburb. I bought the house with cash and moved in, fully prepared to live for at least a few years as a hermetic monk, with all the abstinence which that implies.
The problem with that was, of course, my own horniness. Paula and I had split our sex toy collection up when I moved out (that was a bitter negotiation, let me tell you) and if it wasn't for the miracles of vibrating plastic, I doubt I would have survived. Still, plastic can't compare with real human contact. To that end, I found myself doing things I had sworn I would never do. Like trolling for cyber-sex in lesbian chat rooms. I felt pathetic with one hand on the mouse and the other in my panties, and there was always the dread that the so-called "tattooed biker dyke" on the other end of the modem was actually a man.
I could have easily gone into any bar in town and picked up a guy for a one-nighter, just to blow off steam. I was not at all into men, though. There have been periods in my life when I've considered myself straight, others when I've gone totally gay, and times when I've wanted it all. In the months after breaking up with Paula, I just wanted a woman.
I knew a couple places back in the city where I might have found a chick willing to take me back to her place for few anonymous hours. Out here in the sticks, though, forget about it. So I consoled myself the best I could with internet porn. Most of that is shit, by the way. 99% of the girl-on-girl porno out there is obviously made by men, for men. Air-brushed, silicone-injected bimbos playing the fake-dyke game did nothing for me.
After a few months of boredom, depression, masturbation and doing my best to cultivate an alcohol dependency, I broke down and did something else I swore I never would. I got cable. I'd always despised television and held in contempt zombies who did nothing but watch it for twelve hours a day. When I moved out here, I had dreamed of spending my days reading, painting and writing. But I was too restless to read and I felt like all my creativity had been burned out. I needed something to fill the excruciating hours of my life, and mind-numbing television fit the bill nicely.
The cable company said they'd send somebody over on Wednesday. To the extent that I expected anything, I expected the cable installer to be a middle-aged guy with a beer belly who would expose several inches of butt crack when he bent over.
I waited all Wednesday morning, made an irritated call to the company around noon, and waited three more hours after that. My whole day was wasted waiting for the stupid cable installer. Not that I really had anything else I could have been out doing, but still. They didn't know that. I could have had all sorts of important pressing business to attend to, which I put on hold to wait for their guy to come over and flash his butt crack.
I was well prepared to give the guy the full brunt of my bitchiness, which was formidable, but I was struck silent when I opened the door.
The cable person was a woman, in her late twenties or early thirties. Not very tall, but solidly built. Pretty face and a close-cropped sand-colored man's haircut. No jewelry or make-up. Glasses with clunky man frames. Heavy tool belt clutched in an un-manicured fist. In the air was just a hint of Very Sexy for Men.
My heart and my gay-dar both went PING.
"Hi, my name is Nic," she said, pointing to the name stitched on her uniform shirt, which actually read "Nicole." It was difficult to tell with the shapeless work shirt, but I thought I detected nice-sized breasts, which must have been strapped down tightly. There was a sense of great pressure bursting to be set free.
"Hi, come in," I said, a little breathlessly. She stepped into the house. Any doubts I might have had concerning her orientation disappeared when I saw her glance down at my chest for a few seconds longer than was truly polite.
I looked down. I was wearing the same ratty old tank top I had slept in (it seemed like I hardly ever had any reason to get dressed in the morning) and of course didn't have a bra on. My tell-tale nipples were at full attention, and I felt them get even stiffer under her gaze.
Nic came into the house and set to work, quickly and efficiently. I watched her, my mouth watering. I usually went for the more girly-looking femme types, but now I wondered very seriously what a manly woman might do for me. Or to me. The very fact that her cable-person uniform was so deliberately un-sexy made my imagination work harder trying to see what she might look like underneath it. I sat cross-legged on the couch, for once in my life too intimidated to speak. You better believe that I was sending her all kinds of telepathic signals.
At one point, bending down to hook the cables behind my television, her shirt rode up and her pants rode down. I don't know why plumbers, electricians and cable people couldn't afford belts, but for once I didn't mind. Between the waist-band of her Fruit of the Loom men's-style tighty whities and the Ouroboros tattoo at the base of her spine were two glorious inches of tantalizing ass-cleavage. My jaw dropped open as I imagined where I'd like to put my tongue.
Right. There.
"All right," she said, standing up. "You're hooked up."
She turned on the TV and flipped through the channels to make sure everything looked all right. Then she gave me a brief tutorial on the digital cable box. I sincerely hoped I would never have to use the parental block control or program my favorite channels, because I didn't hear one word she said.
On her way out the door, she gave me her card. Nicole Ellis, Installer/ Technician.
"That's my cell number. If you have any problems in the next few days, give me a call," she said. Then she winked at me. Actually winked. Stealing one last glance at my tits, she was gone.
As I immersed myself in the addictive wonders of cable television that night, I thought of nothing except how I could make Nicole Ellis, Installer/ Technician mine. The plan was complete by the time I went to bed, and I worked out the fine points as I vibrated myself to sleep.
The next morning I took a very long hot shower, getting everything as clean as possible. I shaved my legs and my armpits (I'd let niceties like that slide and had wild forests of hair growing on my body.) I wondered if Nic was hairy. That look had never appealed to me on a woman before, but now I found the possibility intriguing. The more manly she was, the better.
I considered shaving my pussy too, but thought that might be going too far. Instead, I trimmed and sculpted it into a cute little strip. I even put some conditioner on the hair down there, so it would be nicely soft and fragrant. It definitely looked good enough to eat.
Still naked and dripping wet, I went out to the living room and dialed the number on her card. After three rings, a woman's voice answered.
"Nic?" I said.
"No, this is Debra," the voice said. There was a slight edge of suspicion.
"Yeah, my name's Emma, uh, Nic installed my cable yesterday, and it's all fuzzy."
"Hang on."
I heard some rustling and whispering through the line.
"Who is this?" came Nic's raspy, just woken-up voice.
I tersely gave my name and address, gave every indication that I was nothing more or less than an irate customer.
"I'll be over in an hour," Nic said, obviously put out.
Good. Plenty of time. I dressed with a carefully calculated sluttiness. A tight, low-cut, slinky party dress with nothing underneath. Then I loosened every cable connection Nic had painstakingly tightened the day before. I put on a DVD of "Bound" and played with myself lazily as I watched, just to get my pump primed and my scent in the air.
By the time Nic finally arrived, the good parts were over and the movie was well into the far less interesting gangster rip-off plotline. When I answered the door, she gave me a very frank look-over and smiled at me.
"So your cable's out," she said. Her voice told me exactly how likely she really thought this was.
