![]() ![]() “How many times do we need to have this talk?” ![]() ![]() “Mom!” I slump further under the comforter. It’s the female equivalent of blue balls. The door to my bedroom crashes open as I shut off the vibe and pull up the covers. My refuge from my crazy awesome, albeit super-inappropriate mother. ![]() Technically, it’s on the same piece of property, but it’s supposed to be my private space. I moved out more than four years ago-into the damn pool house. Here’s the thing I don’t live with my mom. She must have let herself in again, as is typical. My muscles are tight, fingers moving at a furious pace, the vibrator-God bless the damn vibrator-is hitting the s-s-s-spot, and everything is about to go blissfully white.Īnd that’s the moment my mother’s shrill voice breaks all orgasmic magic, destroying my morning jill-off. Every nerve ending is on fire in the best way possible. I’m right there, teetering on the brink of heaven. My day is always better when I start with a shot from the orgasm bottle. Just because I don’t sport the obvious signs men do, such as morning wood, doesn’t mean I shouldn’t take care of my personal needs before I hit the shower. Women everywhere should take a page from the man manual. It’s 6:51 on Thursday morning, and I’m thirty seconds away from an amazing orgasm. ![]()
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