A few months ago I almost burned down the house. I left some food on the stove and went back to my room to wait and I ended up falling asleep. I woke up to the sound of the smoke alarm. When I went to see what it was, I saw one of my housemates running the tap over the pan in the sink while another one was clearing the smoke away with a dishrag. They gave me an angry lecture about being irresponsible.
This was before I got on the pills. What I didn't tell them at the time was that I didn't go to my room to fall asleep. I was wide awake and playing with myself.
I didn't admit it to you guys because I didn't want you to think I liked being a girl just because I could touch my own pussy. I know there's people that read this blog that think I should probably feel better about my situation, and I agree that the depression and anxiety has made it hard for me to deal with that. I just felt like it was something I should hide. Besides, in my normal life I would probably not tell everyone how often I jacked off.
It was my coping mechanism. Whenever I felt unhappy because I didn't wanna leave my room and didn't wanna eat, I'd go to the bedroom (or the bath, or the living room later if everyone was out) and strip off. I'd start fondling my tits until I felt a little spark downstairs. I could go for an insane amount of time just rubbing and rubbing, usually over top of the panties. I never came though. Maybe it's because I never put anything inside me because the idea of that scares the fuck out of me. I don't even want to like rubbing myself, but I do... or I did anyway.
Once I got on the pills I didn't want to do it anymore. I haven't really touched myself there since December, except when I have to. Whenever I think maybe I could do it, I remember how long I spent and never really finished and it just doesn't feel like a good idea.
I'm telling you all this because something weird is going on with my life. I was talking to Wes, the rich guy who picked me up at the gala, a lot. I like hanging out with him because he's smart and knows a lot about the world and he's funny, and I don't have to do a lot of talking when he's around. Then last night, I got this weird vibe off him... like he was hitting on me. Mostly he acted like his normal self, but on our way out of the restaurant he opened the door for me and gave me this look like "You know what I'm thinking."
I didn't hate it. I didn't want to punch him, like I do most guys. I know he's a good dude. But it still bothered me. Like we can't just be friends, he has to want to have sex with me.
I keep thinking about him. What if I was a guy and he was a girl, someone who looked like me. And he was smart and funny and willing to put up with my craziness, but he was the one with the tits. Well, he'd be too good for me.
I feel bad for him. I want him to date someone else, anyone. It definately wouldn't be hard for him. I want him to be happy, but not with me.