Carla is a big beautiful hispanic woman in her 30s wearing a white tank top and tight jeans. She has the smile of someone who is very tired but trying their best, she has the body of someone who should be in a rapper’s music video.
I’m terrified. I can see a hint of nipple through the tank top, through her bra. I’m seated on a low couch in a movie-set simulated bedroom, surrounded by a hundred cameras.
I’m looking up at Carla as she demonstrates how to put on the VR headset. Trying really hard not to get hard at the mere sight of her right now. Sadly, this is the exact line of thought which leads straight to Bonerville.
This has never happened to me in public. I’m 25. I thought this was only supposed to happen to teenagers. This never happened back then. It’s only now that I know what a body like this could potentially feel like that I am so viscerally affected by her presence.
It’s only now that I’ve just spent the weekend fucking some random girl from Hinge, over and over, that this sight is so triggering to me. My body thinks I’m on another Hinge date.
I used to just write about how I couldn’t help myself, but now, in this moment, I really can’t. I multiply double digit numbers in my head to make it go away, it’s not working.
64 times 16 is 1024, 64 times 8 is 512 and 64 times 6 is, oh my god how is this real
She’s explaining how the VR game works, I’m retaining none of it.
I’m praying to god she doesn’t ask me to stand up,
Praying, silently, that this VR game requires a few more minutes of visual demonstration before we get hands-on,
Praying that blood flows elsewhere in my body,
And now finally physically turning away from her in a desperate attempt to put an end to it all, which is actually kind of working until she takes the VR headset off and asks: why aren’t you looking at me?
Uhh, I was just looking at the screen, to see what the game will look like.
Don’t worry, we’ll get to play in just a moment. For now just watch what I do so you can follow along.
Her body is monumental, hypnotic. Such generous proportions. She’s barely moving, yet she makes herself giggle and bounce.
She asks me if I “got all that,” and I nod, yes ma’am. I remove my jacket, she fixes her hair. All girls are the same.
I didn’t used to be like this. I used to be normal. I used to be able to just coexist with a woman like this wearing something like this and see her as a person and not just a potential thing for me to fuck.
I never used to imagine fucking random women, I never used to imagine fucking at all.
I used to imagine kissing and falling in love with a girl from school. And then that happened over and over and it got old.
Now I’m understanding why (black) men bother random women they encounter in daily life—because they have this same disease, and only she has the cure.
This is the price of playing with fire. I have devolved into a publicly horny creep.
It used to just be mental but now it has leaked into physical reality. Now it’s an impediment to my life.
Carla may or may not have noticed my half-chub upon standing up. The way I’d stare too long in between recording sessions. The way I was always looking right down at her swaying hips as she lead me through the halls of the AI Training Facility.
She didn’t comment on any of it, so it was okay. Crisis averted.
At least now I know I can be attracted to women over 30. And women who aren’t East Asian. I didn’t used to think that. So at least that’s good. Every cloud has a silver lining.
Sorry that this story goes nowhere. I am just recording life.
You always gave me the vibe of horny nighas that would edge in the middle of the class as a kid. Now I see you are more of melancolic romantic gooner type. Sorry for judging you