My exhusband didn’t like receiving sexy photos. I tried once after I got my iPhone and he never responded. When he got home, he told me it’d made him anxious and that he didn’t like it. I never did it again.
I also never saw myself as sexy through his eyes. How could I? He wasn’t verbose and he wasn’t open with his feelings. He would get angry at me when I’d get down on myself and say, “How can I find you sexy or attractive when you’re attacking yourself like this? I find confidence sexy.”
My self-esteem slowly eroded to nothing as the snake ate its tail.
When we decided to separate and I began dating again it was like a whole new world. After 7 years of little to no feedback about my body I was suddenly dancing through hordes of hungry, appreciative men. Their eyes, mouths, hands, and cocks repaired the damage like little worker bees constructing a hive.
And that’s when I met The Neighbor, a man who feasts on the site of breasts like a hungry infant and whose giant cock and sweet smile are always willing to stroke my reborn ego.
Boobs, boobs, boobs, boobs. He can never get enough of them and I am more than willing to oblige him.
Lately, he has been exceptionally good to me. He visits nightly, he’s kind and thoughtful, he’s my number one fan, he talks about his feelings even when he’d rather get a root canal — without any novacane — and he’s doing a ridiculously wonderful subby thing or two I’ll write about later.
And because I’m a kind and grateful woman, I send him pics. Lots and lots of pics.
For TN, everyday is Boobday.
Occasionally I worry that they’re boring, but he swears to me that could never happen. It could be a vestige of my fears of being rejected, but I needn’t worry. He really is passionate about them.
And a funny thing has happened at this point: if I don’t send him a pic of my tits, then we know there’s trouble in paradise; either I’m miserably busy or I’m pissed off.
These daily pics affirm my good mood and affections and create a safe and sexy space I’ve never had before. I cringe now when I think back to my old life, one where my sexuality was barred from its true expression and where I had a little box in which to stay.
No wonder I was so miserable. I was an anemic little flower straining to reach the light and today I am a robust, blooming bouquet — a sweet, lush, and thriving Hyacinth — thanks to my boob-, sex-, and woman-loving neighbor.
Sometimes I think I should write the management office at my apartment complex a thank you note.