"What are we doing here?"

"Chatting by video?"

"I mean, you, me, us. What is this?"

"A good time?"

"Oy vey."

"Gretel, what do you want me to say?"

"The truth."

"We meet up, chill, and order take-out at my place once a week. And we occasionally get each other off online. I'm having fun. Aren't you?"

“I’m tired. Good day, sir.”

“Gretel? Will I see you later?”

“If the past is an indicator of my future decisions, then yeah, obviously.”

Gretel closed the video chat. She stared blankly at the wallpaper on her laptop screen.

Why were these guys so frustrating?

She was almost forty and still dealing with the trifling behavior of the cishet male human beings she chose to engage with.

And due to her unrelenting heterosexuality, she repeatedly got caught up with these clever, quippy dudes who were still "finding themselves," while she'd had the good fortune to figure out who she was in her early thirties. 

This sensitive tough rigamarole was draining.

Sulking in the bedroom of her Oakland condo, Gretel turned on an ASMR video from one of her favorite celebrities, a former teen heartthrob turned crown prince of the alternative comedy scene. From her desk chair, she searched through her drawer and retrieved a bottle of lube along with her Pixie-Bob Tallulah, a violet, vibrating, two-pronged gadget connected to a harness and a remote.

She removed her popcorn print boxers and sat on top of them. Then she decided to get a bath sheet for maximum seat protection. 

On Gretel’s screen, the thirty-something comedian continued reading from his stack of moon-based bedtime books.

She clicked open the container of lubricant and allowed the slick substance to ooze along the purple silicone. As she secured the back of her right knee to the arm of her chair, her foot dangled by the side. Gretel listened to the entertainer coo of his soporific words while she guided the longer shaft of the device inside her light brown pussy lips and the shorter shaft into her lower hole. Then she tugged the black straps around her soft waist and thick thighs. She switched on the pulses.

The ends of her straight, black tresses brushed against the collar of her Atari t-shirt as Gretel rocked on her desk chair. Her lady cum dripped down her crack, spreading around her bumhole. She gripped the chair arm as she panted, staring at the man on her computer trying to put her to sleep.

She increased the Tallulah’s reverberations, which caused her to groan deeper. The sensations flowed from her sopping valley to her core and throughout her limbs as Gretel’s climax gained steam. 

She boosted the sound from the video. When the male performer, with his rectangular framed glasses and impeccably lined scruff, uttered the words, “Good night, my darling,” Gretel screamed, her stuffed holes contracting exquisitely around the buzzing double dildo, the nectar spraying further that the area covered by the towel. But Gretel kept going, turning up the vibrations, urging every last bit of orgasm from between her legs, hoping to dull her unfortunate infatuation with her flaky beau.

Gretel slumped exhausted, her knees splayed, her right calf swayed, her clit throbbing with satisfaction, as the comedian's voice progressed to the next tale. 

She wanted more.

Or less.

More certainty.

Less confusion.

As Gretel performed a thorough cleansing of her toy and the dampened areas around her work-at-home area, she cogitated on what her goal was and how she could achieve it.

She sat on her carpet in her t-shirt and a new pair of boxer shorts, these with a popsicle print, concerned that the all-purpose cleaner fumes might overtake her airways.

Gretel deserved an early birthday present. Only a few more days until she was no longer thirty-nine. What was that club that Lisa had told her about? Last week, Gretel had emailed the company’s general inbox about getting more information, and the CEO replied the same day with a list of details and her direct phone number. But Gretel hadn’t followed up. She had been too busy silently kvetching about why she couldn’t find a man who was compatible with her needs. 

Gretel lifted her phone from her desk.

Would she check her inbox for the jillionth time today, hoping to discover a meaty message, but instead, per usual, find the cupboard bare?

Or would she do the right thing?

"Hi,” Gretel spoke into the receiver. “Abbey?... Yes, this is Gretel… Tell me more about how to pay for a man who does what I want him to do."