Walter J.F., is one of the quirkiest writers/readers at the Salon, always surprising us with his heart felt presentations. I usually note the attendees expressions ranging from extreme puzzlement to total agreement, while Walter astonishes us with his ecsentric perception on lust and sex.
Frantic Lesbian has a Bizarre Fetish
By Walter J.F.
If I tell you what turns me on, what I brood over and masturbate to nightly, and you don’t freak out, I will be the happiest woman alive.
But if I tell you my fetish and you grab my ass and slam my crotch against yours and stare down at me and slow your breathing and rock your hips back and forth like that chick in that one music video you’re obsessed with, and I can feel you’re just as wet thinking about my fantasy as I am, then I swear I’ll wake you up every Saturday morning with my head between your thighs till you’re old and flabby and gross, and I’ll compose a full-orchestra prog-rock album dedicated to your babeness — Yeah, I know I can’t write music, but I’ll learn. Did you know I played French horn in marching band? And they say that’s one of the most difficult instruments to learn, which is probably true, because I was terrible. But you know what I’m not terrible at? Coping with my timidity.
Do you know how many strange things I’ve shoved in my pussy? A lot. I’m a 28-year-old lesbian, and I don’t even own a dildo. I finger fucked you in the back of the theater at “Finding Nemo,” and yet I can’t go into a sex shop and admit to the person who works there that I like sex. My palms get sweaty, my heart races, and the anticipation of buying something naughty knocks me in the chest and I get horny with adrenaline.
I wuss out and go home and furiously jack off to thoughts of you.
Want a tangible example of the long-term damage of a prudish upbringing? How about waiting in the parking lot across from Vikki’s Passion Hut, too nervous to go in, heart racing, and — oh no, there’s that adrenaline again — So, yeah, I wussed out again and fucked the gearstick right there in the shadows then floored it to your place, rubbing my thighs together, pumping the bass in my speakers full blast, hoping the tremors rumbling through the seat would bring me halfway to cumming by the time I charged into your apartment, tore off your clothes, and tackled you onto the bed, and — Christ, why couldn’t I have been raised Hindu? They’re taught to be prudes too, but at least when they do fuck they do it right. I don’t know, maybe if I’m good enough I’ll be reincarnated as a Hindu or… Wait a minute — No, never mind. Anyway, do you see what I’m saying? You bring this out of me, you make me feel OK for being horny, and that’s the happiest I’ve ever been.
So please, work with me, baby.