if she drinks, she can wear it. she chooses the full frontal nudity type black lace top and a pretty bra. a nice shelf for those disasters of comfort called tits by brutal men full of cum and waiting for the moment... blah blah blah.

she's so in tune with her sexuality that what she sees is microscopic. she is missing all that is around her, and all that surrounds and creates that sex. sex has become a stress that guides her away from her goals and aspirations- something that controls her thoughts and actions.

she kissed a girl last night, and although these girls both knew it was all fun and play and silly silly girly secretness, she knew where it was coming from. this longing to know and understand people and take from it what she can... a constant motion. the kisses revealed it, but to her concern, not much more than what could have already been revealed through the girl's eyes or touch or voice was found in her lips and tongue and bite. beauty, though. and that is what makes parties and bathrooms and secrets and girls so magnificent. beauty.

why does she masturbate in front of friends? why does she have to feel wetness about 3/4 of the time she lives? 75 percent is so much, she tells herself. it's never enough. if it was enough, she would only have to feel it like... one percent. is she so comfortable with this 75 percent that she has locked out any or all possiblity of future sexual intamacy with a single lover, or even marriage? she is afraid, and as a punishment or maybe just a step in another direction, she places the chastity belt on once again. this time, not for the others. she hasn't had sex in forever. this is for her damn hand.