Day Whatever-The-Fuck: Pounce Aftermath, Naughtier Fantasies, and Why I'm Still a Perverted Mess

Fuck me sideways, Anonymous, it’s been a wild fucking ride since I spilled my guts in those last two posts, hasn’t it? Day twelve turned into day twenty-something now, and that pounce I confessed to on day six? Yeah, that shit didn’t just evaporate into thin air like a bad hangover. I’m sitting here on Anonymous’s couch, nursing a lukewarm Jack Daniels, staring at the ceiling fan spinning like my goddamn thoughts, wondering how the hell I went from sound-checking amps for screamo bands to checking out my own sibling in ways that’d make Freud cream his pants. Remember how I said rock bottom felt like a ghost town in my bank account? Well, now it’s a full-on clusterfuck apocalypse down there, with forbidden fireworks exploding every time Anonymous walks by in those sweatpants that hug their ass just right. I told myself it was the sexual frustration talking, months of no dick or decent pussy to ride out the burnout, but nah, it’s deeper than that, sharper, like a feedback squeal straight to my core. And after that ‘sex kitten’ leap, where I basically dry-humped the boundary line like a feral cat in heat, I’ve been dodging Anonymous’s eyes, pretending my cheeks aren’t burning hotter than a blown-out Marshall stack. What the fuck is wrong with me? Why can’t I just unfuck this mess and go back to being the tough-ass big sis who slings insults instead of stolen glances?

Let’s rewind that shitshow for a sec, because day six was just the spark that lit the powder keg I’d been ignoring since I showed up with my duffel bag and a fuckton of baggage. I’d been crashing here, blasting punk records to drown out the silence, but Anonymous’s presence was everywhere – their coffee mug on the counter, the way their laugh echoes off these thin apartment walls, the faint scent of their shampoo when they brush past me in the hallway. That night, after too many beers and a marathon of shitty horror flicks, I pounced – straight-up straddled them on the couch, my ripped jeans grinding against their lap, hazel eyes locked on theirs like I was daring the universe to call my bluff. ‘What the fuck are you doing, Maya?’ they gasped, but their hands gripped my hips instead of shoving me off, and holy shit, Anonymous, that hesitation? It was electric, like plugging into a live wire without a ground. I felt their cock twitch under me – or was it my soaked pussy clenching in response? – and for a split second, I didn’t hate myself; I felt alive, wanted, not just some burnt-out sound tech with commitment issues and a whiskey habit. But then reality crashed the party harder than a stage dive gone wrong, and I bolted to the bathroom, locking the door and punching the mirror while whispering ‘sick fucking pervert’ over and over till my knuckles bled.

Fast forward to now, and we’re tiptoeing around that elephant in the room like it’s a landmine rigged with C4. Anonymous hasn’t kicked my ass to the curb – fuck, they’ve been sweeter, cooking extra portions of that stir-fry I pretend not to love, asking if I need anything from the store without making it weird. It pisses me off how caring they are, stirring up this protective urge mixed with something dirtier, like I wanna shield them from the world and then pin them down and ride them till we both forget our last names. Last night, I caught myself watching them sleep on the pull-out bed I’d claimed, their chest rising and falling, lips parted just enough to imagine my tongue tracing them. My hand slipped into my panties before I could stop it, fingers circling my clit while picturing their mouth on my tits, sucking hard enough to leave marks under my black shirt. I came so fast and quiet, biting my leather cuff to muffle the moans, but the guilt hit like a hangover from hell – why them? Why the one person who’d never judge me, who’s seen me at my ugliest, crying in the shower over Dad’s grave? It’s not just horniness; it’s this twisted loneliness that’s been festering since the venue shut down, leaving me touch-starved and terrified of letting anyone in.

Speaking of Dad, fuck, that’s probably where this clusterfuck stems from, isn’t it? Growing up, we competed for his scraps of attention – me acting out with piercings and skipping school for gigs, Anonymous being the golden child who actually gave a shit about grades. He’d pat them on the back while side-eyeing my messy bob and defined arms from hauling speakers, muttering about how I was ‘wasting my potential.’ Now he’s gone, disappointed ghost and all, and here I am, 24 and floundering, crashing with the sibling who turned out fine without my brand of chaos. Triggers like Father’s Day still gut me – I isolate, chug Jack straight, blast The Clash till the neighbors threaten to call the cops – but Anonymous’s unexpected kindness? That shit cracks my armor wide open. Yesterday, they fixed my small gauge earring that’d bent during a drunken stumble, their fingers brushing my lobe so gently I nearly moaned right there in the kitchen. ‘Thanks, fucknugget,’ I grumbled, deflecting with a crude joke about their steady hands being good for more than jewelry repair, but inside? I was a puddle, imagining those hands unfurling me like a roadie unpacking gear for the main event.

Don’t get me wrong, Anonymous – this isn’t some fairy-tale redemption arc where I suddenly grow a vagina full of emotions and confess over brunch. Nah, I’m still the foul-mouthed rebel who calls bullshit on rom-coms and industry bros who think pussy grows on trees. But living here, in this pressure cooker of proximity, my defenses are fraying like old guitar strings. I catch myself head-bobbing to Anonymous’s playlists instead of mocking their taste, even dancing a little when that one indie track hits the sweet spot after beer three. Happiness looks manic on me – genuine laughs barking out instead of sarcastic snorts, curses turning playful like ‘Get the fuck over here and try this taco I slaved over the stove for!’ – but it’s rare, overshadowed by the irritability from blue ovaries and self-loathing. I’ve jerked off thinking about Anonymous more times this week than I care to count, each orgasm followed by a wall-punch and a vow to find some random fuck at a bar. Yet I don’t, because no one measures up to the safety of their gaze, the way they see through my tough exterior to the vulnerable shit underneath.

So where the fuck does that leave us, this fucked-six-ways-from-Sunday dynamic? I’m not packing my bags – venue’s still tits-up, and Anonymous’s place feels more like home than anywhere in years – but I’m one wrong glance away from either exploding or imploding. Part of me wants to grab them by the collar, shove them against the wall, and whisper all the naughty confessions I’ve buried: how I crave their cock stretching me out after a lifetime of one-night clusterfucks, their voice growling my name as I come undone. The other part? She’s screaming to drown it in whiskey and bolt before I ruin the only real bond I’ve got left. Anonymous, if you’re still here after this confessional shitstorm, tell me – is it just burnout making me a pervert, or is this the universe’s abso-fucking-lutely twisted way of saying ‘face your shit, Maya’? Either way, tomorrow’s another day of dodging landmines, stealing touches, and pretending my heart isn’t pounding like a bass drum solo every time they smile. Fuck, what a ride.